Those He Leaves Behind
by Stuch
Summary: ME2 Slight-AU. A disgraced N7 marine, witness to Shepard's war crimes on Torfan is tasked with investigating the commander's miraculous return with a mind to end his life. When he goes rogue will he still be able to pull the trigger and kill Shepard?
1. Chapter 1

He had always wanted a krogan to stoop out of the shuttle to avoid hitting their head, but none ever appeared. All he knew of them, the young drell, was what his father had told him. Of their hulking great frames, their reptilian features ("Like our own?" but there was only a shake of the head) and their abundant warrior spirit. No krogan had ever come to their undersea colony on Kahje. They can't swim, was his father's own reason but he knew his was some sort of joke as they resided within one of the many domed cities that were dotted throughout the vast, planet-covering ocean known as the Encompassing. Though the joke would serve as well as any other explanation until a real Krogen appeared to explain themselves in person.

All other races had appeared from the shuttles at some time or another in the city's main cargo bay. The young drell would clamber amongst the crates and caches, out of sight to watch the newcomers come blinking into the bright lights and noise. Nobody ever saw him because he never wanted to be seen, his father demanded this of him each time on the city-side of the immigration checkpoint, "You know what to do Harkin. Scout ahead and tell me who you think is worth our time." Newcomers needed to go through immigration before entering the city from the cargo bay but there were other entrances, mostly for security purposes and Harkin would use these to sneak inside. After seeing the latest arrivals he would rush back through to inform his father. Nobody ever saw, not the cargo bay security, workers and not the newcomers.

All except one. A human, who stepped out onto the shuttle's rear gangplank and spotted Harkin almost immediately. Pale eyes that stared right into him, questioned him and forced Harkin to hide from the human's glare behind a crate. His father had no patience for humans, said they were lazy and prone to procrastination, no good for the sort of work he would put them to. The boy thought maybe he would make an exception for this human though; nobody ever spotted him when he was hiding, ever.

When the initial fear had subsided, Harkin slowly peered around the crate once again to get a look at the latest selection for his father's business. Cheap migrant labour from across the galaxy came to Kahje for various reasons, mostly to get away from everything. The human had shifted his attention to immigration control and had made his way to the booth and was speaking with a member of the security team, the Drell was able to get a better look at him. Tall for a human, even from his vantage he could see that. Greying hair and a covering of lighter yet facial hair - still a humorous thing for a Drell to see. His build was strange, not quite fat but he seemed to have recently let himself go, the arms and shoulders remained muscular (something his father had told him to keep an eye out for). The clothes, a pale bodysuit was somehow still too big for him and the sleeves flowed as the man threw an arm over his head to scratch the back of his neck. The mouth hardly opened in his responses to the Drell's questions at the checkpoint.

The cargo bay was far too noisy to hear his words, the cavernous walls echoed and layered every voice again and again into an ear-deafening hum. Salarians, turians ("Keep a look out for turians, good workers."), humans, fellow drell and even the odd asari were hoping for passage inside the city. Their reasons for doing so would be ever more varied than their race but some would be looking for work and Harkin was good at spotting them; the ones who arrived with next to nothing. The human on this occasion carried a single tattered duffel sack over one shoulder, an outdated polyblend that humans still insisted on using.

Harkin couldn't quite put his finger on what it was about this human that continued to intrigue him, but the look he had received from the rear of the shuttle had really put the hook in. And he wanted the man to make eye-contact one last time before he sneaked his way back out to report to his father, one more passive yet violent glance that acted as a dam to an apparent reservoir of rage. But his father would take some convincing, waiting on the other side of the numerous, vigorous security checks. Harkin had even forgotten to check for krogan.

"No," the predicted response, "No humans." His father was resolute and stead-fast but youth carries with it that naive determination which can drive a parent to eventual surrender.

"He saw me father!" Harkin's exaggerated arm movements painted the scene, "Amongst the old, forgotten crates. Nobody ever sees me there!" Such had been his rush to bring what he considered big news that Harkin has been spotted by a Drell Security agent. Lazy, careless. Plucked up by the wrist, he had to give the guard a swift kick in the shin in order to wrestle free and merge back into the crowds of the travel hub. "You know how careful I am about seeing seen," he added with emphasis upon remembering that this time even the slow-witted security had spotted him.

"He looked right at you? Didn't just happen to look the right way?" Harkin smiled to himself having found his father's curiousity.

"Right at me," and he took a moment to think about it properly, his face turned up slightly, "Right into me, father. But not like an asari would. I can't properly explain it." He wished he could explain for his own sake if no other. He was too proud to tell his father how frightened the human had made him. Weak, spongy things that they were.

"What did he look like?" Father's affectionate hand was then on top of his head.

"His... hairs are greying but he's large in the shoulders and arms, good for working."

"I'll be the judge of that."

The new arrivals came through the gates from security in a mass, myriad group and set about dividing themselves into smaller categories. Some went straight passed those waiting and disappeared like ghosts into the crowds. Others met with friends and loved ones in various forms of social embrace. Turians said very little to each other, presumably the words stolen from their lips by the salarians' motor mouths. Fewer still had no sense of direction or purpose, some half dozen or so, and they were strung out in a loose group. They seemed to know the routine. It was technically against Kahje's employment laws for labour to be solicited and 'bought' in travel hubs. But if any member of the security forces were to ask most had an excuse ready to go and leave their sudden interrogator knowing the truth but impotent to do anything about it.

"That's him," Harkin tugged at his father's body-hugging shirt. The statement was redundant as of the six stragglers, only one was human.

"I can't use him for labour," his father's rasping voice was firm on that point, Harkin could tell, "But..." Though he did not continue and Harkin was left to wonder the end of his sentence as his father walked confidently over to the human. If the man saw their interest in him he made every effort not to let it show. Quickly by his father's side, Harkin half-hid himself from the man's line of sight. Eventually the human became visibly agitated by their intrusion of his personal space and looked dead in the father's eyes. A voice heavy laden with threat and bitterness.

"Ain't your kid seen a human before?"

"He has. Many in fact."

"So I wonder why the little bastard was peering at me from a place he had no right being in."

"I sent him."

The man laughed as though he didn't have many left, a short, sharp exhale of breath from the nose, "Some father you are, putting your kid in danger like that. Probably tells you it's a game does he?" That look again, Harkin slid further behind his father.

Who cut straight to the chase, "I have work for a man like you."

"Who says I am lookin'?" but the front soon dropped, "What sort of work?"

"I work in construction-"

"I don't labour."

"Good," Harkin's father caught the man out, "Because I need security. Materials go missing, some skulls need bashed together amongst existing workforce."

"And you think I am cut out for that kind of work?" The man gave another little snort, "Keep moving you reptilian-" his gaze met Harkin and he paused but only for a moment, "piece of shit. I don't need charity."

"Maybe I phone the Alliance embassy, say I have information regarding a deserter." Harkin didn't know where his father's accusation came from and perhaps it was just a gamble, but the human hesitated just long enough not to bother denying it and resorted to threats instead.

"Maybe I break your arm."

"I'd still offer you the job if you did." At this the human laughed, not his disdainful snort but an open-mouthed guffaw that stretched and distorted his facial whiskers. And Harkin understood what this human was, a killer and understood too the look he had shot him from the shuttle. A look that reduced him from a sentient being to a sack of organs and fluid, not so much a look that could kill as one that simply imagined you already dead. A look that you felt replaced your body wholesale with that of some twitching child corpse from his memory. Harkin was haunted by it for as long as the human worked for his father.

Though worked he did, honest and hard. Harkin's father worked as a foreman contracted by various drell construction firms to oversee the day-to-day processes and labour. A buffer if you will between the suits and hammers and responsible for the happiness of both. They lived almost entirely on-site and Harkin had never known more than two planetary cycles of social stability before being uprooted once more. He never minded though (or never knew any different) and his life was certainly a happy one.

Educated and entertained by the various labourers who spent anywhere up to a full cycle working for his father. There was the turian who taught him how to fire a rifle; "On Palaven, you would have learned at half this age." and the volus who kept his father's books and huffed and wheezed his way through teaching Harkin some advanced mathematics and economics (when his father discovered that the volus had been cheating him, threats of helmet removal and poisonous decompression had been thrown about). Some were more than welcoming of his social curiosities of their species' cultures and ways and few were anything less than willing to humour his never-ending questions. Except for the new human, who was so disdainful of Harkin's childlike desire to learn a little bit of everything that he threatened there might be an 'on-site accident' if he didn't stop bothering him.

The man stayed in a temporary, flat packed structure on the perimeter of the construction site not too far from Harkin and his father. One night, when the surrounding weight of water went pitch black and everything was re-illuminated by the city's reflection on the inside of its own dome, Harkin looked out from the window above his bed to see the human sitting outside in the gloom. A spotlight picked out the worn edges of the second-hand armour that his father had bought for the new 'security chief' and there was a bottle in the man's hand that was swung to his mouth with routine timing. He was muttering to himself and some of the drink dribbled from his chin amongst the well-kept whiskers - beads of ever reflected light lost to the tossed earth. Harkin looked over his shoulder so see his father asleep at the other end of the room, a deep sleep that comes from the end of a day of excess stress.

He should have went back to sleep, have rolled over and minded his own business. Left the human to his drunken, late-night ramblings. But these doubts only crept in after he had carefully crossed the cramped living space and ever so slowly taken his father's pistol from the drawer beside the bed (his breathing steady in slumber even as Harkin turned toward the door). Only after he was outside with the door so adeptly closed behind him in silence did the doubts begin to gnaw at the back of his mind. Your approaching a drunk, grown man with a pistol in your hand. A man who may very well be a trained soldier. Would he threaten his employment by harming me? Harkin had hidden behind his father on occasion when he was younger, when his antics had provoked one of two of the labourers into heated words. Knowing fine well that their threats would be remain empty if they wanted to keep their jobs.

The human did good work for his father, there could be no argument about that. In the first week there had been no change, resources and tools had continued to leak out of the site. His father had began to not so quietly voice concerns, "What exactly am I paying this lazy human for?" Though two weeks later, a turian who had worked for them for over half a cycle didn't show up for his shift, nor the next day and the discrepancies ended. The human had found the leak and inexplicably plugged it. Harkin never found out what happened, never hearing the others speak of it in the course of his usual eavesdropping. His father seemed to know better than to ask or only concerned himself with the result. "Imagine! A turian! Never could trust them!" Though he hired another two for the following job.

So focused was the young drell on the bottle in one hand that he hadn't until then noticed the human's sidearm at his hip. By then it was too late and the slurred voice spoke without the eyes meeting his, "Go back to bed, boy. Before you do something stupid with your father's toy." It felt suddenly so heavy, cold in his hand and he regretted even having it with him. He's dangerous, I need it.

"You should g- go back inside," Harkin's voice sounded tiny, shrill in the night air and carried in it an awful fear, "You are working tomorrow."

"Or else what?" the human took another swig, "You'll shoot me? Why are you even out here? Go back to bed, boy." Harkin looked down at the weapon, his scaled fingers wrapped so tightly around the pistol's grip. I could do it, before he even had chance to take hold of his own. His mind went to a dark little fantasy about the fallout of killing this man but he knew he wouldn't be able to actually go through with it.

"Can you even lift that thing?" The human gave a snort and Harkin tensed up in anger.

"A turian taught me how to use one!" Why he lifted the gun and pointed it the man, Harkin didn't know, maybe he was rising to the man's goad. Maybe he thought it would put an end to the encounter, that the man would back down and slip off to bed without another word about it.

"Did the turian tell you never to point a weapon at somebody unless you are willing to shoot them?" The human pushed himself up to standing with the bottle as a stabiliser, walked over to Harkin and simply took the pistol out of the drell's hand without a word of protest, "That's what I thought, go back to bed. Boy." Not without the pistol, his father wouldn't be at all pleased if he found out and Harkin stood there with a pathetic face, looking down at the weapon in the man's hand. "Bed. Now."

"No." Harkin was adamant in his response, desperate to regain a little pride from the whole situation. And just for a moment it seemed like it had worked, that he was going to get the gun back, slink back into bed and pretend the whole thing didn't happen. The human dropped the bottle and simultaneously lifted the other arm, holding the confiscated weapon. Harkin didn't even hear the bottle smash. Didn't see the human drunkenly stagger for a moment, the barrel cooling in the night air, before he disappeared into his temporary digs to the most peaceful night's sleep he had since arriving on the planet. And Harkin never did get to see a krogan.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: The story runs in a parallel to the events of Mass Effect 2, but this first chapter is to introduce the main OC before tying him into the canon. Any and all reviews are appreciated.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I like slow-burn introductions. This chapter will give a better idea of what is going to happen and when the whole thing is set. Shepard will appear in the next chapter, albeit in flashback form. Thanks to all who read and enjoy, but why not drop me a little review? If only to say why you don't like it.**

**Disclaimer: I own Mass Effect, may Bioware serve me papers if they wish.**

The human came to in a bright room with his eyes throbbing from the white, metallic walls. He recognised it as the room he had been questioned in after being dragged to the city's main police station. His night had been spent in drell security custody and they had really done a number on him, his whole body was pockmarked with bruises and any movement left him in excruciating pain. His tongue couldn't help but poke at the exposed gum left by a lost tooth and the bitter taste of blood wouldn't leave him. _Cops really like to let loose on child killers. _And on top of all that he had one hell of a hangover. That was the first day and he could only assume he had passed out from one of the beatings, his body just gave up on him and gave into the varied drell officers who came in for a turn in the punishment. Two of them were there when he came back to consciousness and gave him a few more kicks for good measure before dragging him off to a holding cell. A far darker, danker and smaller room but the child killer spent most of his time in there unconscious, so didn't really have the time to care.

No sense of how much time had passed or how many times he had slipped in and out of consciousness. Carried between holding cell and interrogation room over and over again, beatings were regular and vicious - the drell had a certain rigidity to their blows that knocked him for six. Their questioning was simplistic and seemed to enjoy going over the same ground, they wanted a confession for the killing of the child and he gave it to them. This resulted in a beating. They wanted a confession and he didn't give it to them, the result was the same. Eventually hunger set in and he knew it must have been a few days when he woke in a cell to his usual kick in the ribs and barking guard, "Get up!" The man just spat at the newly shined boot, blood newly mixed in with the saliva. The physical trauma was inevitable and the man still wanted to get his own back on them the only way he knew how. The guard wiped his boot on the human's face before hauling the prisoner to his feet and dragged him through the blinding corridor to the interrogation room one more time.

He was fitted with two metallic bracelets and thrown into a chair behind a heavy-set, chrome table. Before leaving him the guard took up his omni-tool and the man's arms jerked out of his control and fixed themselves to the table, held in place by the magnetised, untethered cuffs. He knew the routine now and didn't even bother resisting (he had nearly broken his wrists the first time), the guard slammed the heavy door on his way out. Left with nothing but his own thoughts, the human accepted his fate that this was the end of the line for him. Drell were quite fond of capital punishment and even if he were imprisoned or acquitted there was the boy's father to consider; a wealthy man no doubt demanding justice whatever the price. If anything he grew more surprised each time he was awoken by another beating - punches and kicks meant he was still alive. The door opened for a drell to walk inside, too smartly dressed for another guard. An assassin? Death at last.

He had a different complexion to the other drell who had been delivering the beatings so far, somebody brought in especially? He didn't make eye-contact with the bruised and blood-caked human but instead read quietly from his omni-tool. "Captain Gable?" voice smooth as you like, none of the usual throatiness that came with the species, "Sean Gable." But the human didn't bother replying, just stared at the latest drell. "They were going to execute you for the incident with the child, that was until we ran a few background checks and found you to be far more interesting than a mere construction yard security officer."

Captain Gable muttered, "A father's justice will always take a backseat to diplomatic relations."

At this the drell looked up from his data and smiled, "Naturally. We drell are always willing to clean up an Alliance mess to keep things, how you say, sweet?"

"I was still able to get into the city at all," the man snorted and spat a little blood onto the otherwise pristine flooring, "Or was that all part of your plan to catch me?"

The interrogator sat on one corner of the table, "Admittedly, we had no word that you were fleeing your ever so colourful past to come to our fine planet, but if I were head of immigration control things would be far more strict I assure you."

"But you're not."

"But I'm not."

"When do I leave?" the man smiled, knowing that he was safe for the time being.

"The Alliance military are sending their own man to pick you up," he sounded severely disappointed adding, "And we would have so liked to have dealt with you personally."

"I bet." Gable wondered if death was harsh enough punishment for killing a young drell. He remembered the boy crumple into an uncomfortable heap on the sharp gravel of the site and remembered too being far more concerned about the loss of his liquor. He had been rudely awoken by armed drell storming his small digs and dragging him from bed, a thousand needles stabbed at his brain as the hangover took over from the shock.

"Sadly for myself and the guards to whom you have become acquainted, you are worth far more as a bargaining chit."

Gabled itched awkwardly at his chin with his shoulder before he said, "Your file on me must be out of date. I'm not worth much to the Alliance anymore."

"Well, you're worth the immediate release of two drell assassins to somebody," the interrogator had another quick glance at the information on his omni-tool, "Even with the _mis-steps _you made toward the end of your career."

"Just following orders." Silence followed this and Gable tried not to let his mind wander, not without a drink to hand.

"You could have made Spectre of at least C-Sec," a scaled finger slid through Captain Gable's biography, "But you turned down every political opportunity afforded to you, spurned a lot of people in high places."

Gable sighed, "Could you send the guards back in? I'd prefer another hazing to listening to this again. Every court martial, judicial review and now some drell in a shitty suit."

The drell smiled again continued to patronise, "Forgive me, I am simply trying to understand how a talented soldier like yourself ends up a tired, old child killer. You should see yourself, very unbecoming of a human with N7 status of all things." _Where is he going with this? _"Curious indeed that you are here at all and that someone is willing to pay so highly for your release, so what was your mission here?" The drell stood up from the table and flattened creases from his suit.

"What?" The room felt suddenly cold, threatening and there was a flicker in the alien's eyes that sent a bolt of realisation through Gable's body. "No mission, I came here to get away from that espionage bullshit."

Walking around and behind Gable, the drell continued along his line of thought, "Your fall from grace was very sudden and somewhat spectacular, N7 marine to nomadic drunkard in what, half an Earth cycle?" The captain swivelled his head, tried to get a fix on where the accuser was and thought it was best to keep quiet against the accusations. Hands slipped over his shoulders and sent a shiver down his spine. What he wouldn't have given for the use of his arms, to tear the slimy bastard limb from limb.

The fingers tightened, "What was your mission? Who was your target?" _Stay silent, any answer will be the wrong one._ "Captain, you did well and your cover was solid but you've been caught now. Confess and tell us your mission and we'll be lenient." The steely-strong hands slipped up his neck and took hold of his skull, thumbs dug into the temples. Pain, sudden and immense. Impossible to ignore, Gable's teeth ground together and the drell spoke in almost a whisper. "I did a little general reading on human anatomy, you have a number of these little pressure points. They make my job so much easier." There was almost a demented emphasis on the final word, he took a sick pleasure in the proceedings.

Gable relented, "Okay! Just stop! I'll tell you!" The relief was instant but there remained a dull throb of pain behind his eyes.

"Humans," the interrogator was disappointed, "So weak."

"My mission was to track the creators of the Blue Suns," Gable spoke slowly and deliberately.

"Impossible," the drell walked back to the other side of the table and leaned on it with both hands, "No-one knows who that is."

"Well I was lead here," Gable paused and he saw the drell's impatience in his face. _Got him_. "Saw the opportunity and went for it. The kid I killed the other night? Leader of the Blue Suns." He grinned and revealed the gap left by the missing tooth and the drell was unable to fully conceal his rage.

"Very funny," he knocked three times on the room's only door and it clacked open from the outside, "It was too much to expect for you to co-operate, perhaps another session of beatings might make you see sense."

"Go easy on the face," Gable reminded him, "I will need to look good for my ride of out of here." The suit stormed out and three guards skulked in. Gable just closed his eyes and waited for the knockout blow.

Shocked into waking by a splash of water to the face and the inevitable boot to the ribs - bruises on top of bruises. Grunted commands that he couldn't make out in his newly-woken state but he saw that he was back in the damp cell with two guards standing over him. The rest of the water was thrown over him and Gable let out a roar at the chill that raced through him. The guards just laughed and slammed the door behind them. The captain dragged himself to a wall and sat shivering against it, cursing their attempts to clean him up. It wasn't entirely unwelcome though and he couldn't help but allow himself a little smile knowing that 'clean-up' meant rescue was close at hand. Though not before another trip to the interview room.

"Name. Rank. Serial number."

"Sean Gable. Captain. Charlie-six-three-five-victor, november-seven."

"Mission on Kahje?"

"Swimming lessons." Another joke, another blow from the guard but at least they were now focusing on his torso and he took some solace from that. They were running out of time, he could tell and the guards soon gave up on the questions all together in favour of the hazing. The whole debacle was a reminder of how useless torture and physical abuse were in obtaining information from someone who didn't know anything. They wanted information that Gable simply didn't have and had the abuse gone on much longer he might have toyed with the idea of an elaborate, fake mission if only for respite from the fists. The only weapon he had left was laughter and after taking each blow to the chest, arms or back he would reply with a blood-gargling guffaw that dismayed one guard so much he refused to continue his involvement. The others made up for him though and Gable's frantic laughter only made them lash out with more and more vigour until a fist flew high and cracked the captain across the jaw. Which silenced his laughter and forced his teeth to break the skin on his tongue, blood flowed over his lip and through his beard.

He went limp and fell to one side in the chair, his arms still fixed to the table by the wrist. The drell argued amongst themselves whose fault it was before one release the electromagnet and Gable fell impotently to the floor, hard. His senses were completely shot but he half-heard, half-saw the door open and two figures walk in. Harsh words from a familiar voice followed.

"The hell is going on in here! This man is under Alliance military arrest and formal complaints will be filed against each one of you!" Hands, human hands lifted him from under the shoulders and in Gable's groggy state they might well have been the hands of angels. Until that point he had been trying so hard to stay strong, to not let the stress of captivity get inside his head and to not give an inch. And now that help had arrived all that effort melted away and he sagged in the human arms without looking at the faces of his rescuers or asking them why. Why was he being saved at all? A man like him. Had he asked them (and had they answered him) he might well have stayed and tried his luck on Kahje.

It was the vessel's departure from the planet's humid atmosphere that stirred Captain Gable from his drug-induced slumber to find himself restrained in what looked like a small medical bay - suggesting a ship only a few times larger than a shuttle craft. He groaned as the pain coursed up to his brain once more. During the beatings, adrenaline had taken the edge off but now he was left to endure the result of every abrasion and bruise on his body. His noises of pain must have been heard elsewhere in the ship because a voice came over the intercom and echoed around his brain like there was a loudspeaker next to his ear, "Gable? You awake you sorry son of a bitch?"

He was sure he knew the voice, "Himmen? Now I know I'm in trouble."

"Try and get some rest," Himmen attempted to sound reassuring, "Once I get this junk heap into autopilot we can talk."

"Put me out of my misery, give me the jist."

"You're going after Shepard."

This took the captain by complete surprise and he to process before giving the only reply that came to mind, "Shepard's dead."

"A colonel has a good source who says otherwise," Himmen was stern and steady, Gable had always known when he was bullshitting and this was not one of those times.

"The fuck am I supposed to sleep with this on my mind?"


	3. Chapter 3

Gable entered the Alliance vessel's main deck which served as a meeting room when Himmen was setting up the projection equipment for an incoming transmission. He looked older than the captain remembered, as though far longer had passed than the three years since that drink on Omega station. Himmen's hairline had made a tactical retreat and his face seemed gaunt, humourless. Always one to lift spirits amongst the platoon back when they served as sergeants on Elysium, Himmen and Gable were the oldest of friends who scarcely kept contact. He smiled at the captain's appearance, swollen and bruised, "I know I look like shit these days but even I feel better with you in that state."

"Drell hospitality," he muttered, "You were the last man I expected to pluck my ass out of there."

"Once I heard it was you, I volunteered," Himmen walked over or hobbled, his left leg dragged with some effort, "Thought we could catch up."

They shook hands and moved for an awkward, macho embrace before Gabled pointed, "The leg still?"

"Yeah," Himmen gave it a solid slap, "I can afford to fix it but it keeps me out of combat duty."

"Kept you off Torfan," cold, angry silence at this before Gable apologised, "That was uncalled for, sorry."

Himmen ignored the apology and limped back to the communication interface, "Colonel Ward was waiting for you. He'll fill you in on the whole thing. I could do it myself, but you know what the brass is like."

"Ward?"

He shrugged, "Don't know the name either but I've been pretty much mothballed lately, left to rot in an office. Worried about suffering withdrawls from my damn desk." The jokes were still there in his words, Gabled noticed, but there was no spark or feeling in the voice and they fell flat. "You ready?"

"As I'm going to be." Himmen deftly moved his hands over the panel, the deck's lights dimmed and a projection of a heavy set and stern looking middle-aged man of mixed race (Gable guessed black and asian) formed in the centre of the floor.

The pudgy face quickly creased into a frown, "Lieutenant, please tell me this is some sort of joke and Captain Gable will be with us shortly."

Himmen walked away from the console to stand behind the battered captain, "The drell were less than careful with him, sir. We'll have him more than fixed up by the time we reach you."

The colonel stood stiffly at ease and pursed his lips before he continued, "Gable, you know that you are a wanted man? Charged with desertion."

Gable felt light-headed and wanted nothing more than to sit down, his legs ached and his mind raced to keep up, even to plan ahead and guess the colonel's line of thought, "I do indeed." The colonel didn't reply but waited, eyes burning holes into the captain's head. "I do indeed, _sir_." Gabled eventually relented to the red tape, he was back in the machine now and could already guess what was going to be offered in return for accepting whatever mission he had been 'rescued' for.

"What do you know of Commander Shepard?" The colonel's question was ludicrously vague and Gable had to hold back a smirk, but couldn't resist a slight jest in his response.

"That he's dead," the captain turned to the vacant expression of Himmen, "Could you get me a chair? I'm gonna collapse any second."

"Of course sir," the lieutenant hobbled off as quickly as he could and returned pushing a smoothly-angled chair, "Here." _Sir? _Having Ward there turned Himmen from old friend to subordinate and left Gable feeling very awkward.

The colonel turned impatient, "Yes yes, killed by geth, we all know the official story. But the Alliance has so far failed to recover the Commander's body and even survivors from the Normandy were unable to corroborate a geth attack or indeed any aspect of the word we officially put out."

"Either you didn't look hard enough," the captain tried to push the conversation forward, "Or somebody else has the remains."

"Trust me," the colonel's hands moved to his hips and he began to pace slowly from side to side, his projection momentarily flickered as it came into contact with a deck fixture, "The Alliance left no stone unturned on that planet."

"A state funeral would have been a wonderful sight, sir," Gable muttered, "Hero of the Citadel laid to rest. Always have to find a political spin on it all."

"Your cynicism is duly noted," Ward's jaw clenched, teeth not doubt grinding, "But I have reason to believe that the commander might not be as dead as people think."

"Who's your source, sir?" the captain felt as though he were jumping through hoops for the colonel's pleasure and wished he could just get right to the meat of the issue.

"Classified," Ward smiled, "Very classified."

"Some nut job says he saw Shepard?" Gable was bored already, "And you believe him? The Alliance must get dozens of lunatics across the galaxy each day saying they've seen him. What is this kiddy bullshit? Throw me back in with the drell."

"The source is entirely above doubt," Lieutenant Himmen had been all but silent and his interjection caught Gable off guard, "You can trust me on that, sir." And he did, he knew that Himmen liked a joke but when it came to the job he was a straight arrow.

"Are we going to this source now?"

"The source, codenamed 'Phalanx', is secure and close by," Ward spoke slowly, words chosen with unwavering prudence, "And you will meet in good time. First, I think you should ask the obvious question."

"Why me?" the captain slumped further into the chair, feeling as though he would be stuck there for some time and answered his own question, "Because if this thing goes wrong you can far more easily deny all knowledge and blame the drunken deserter for acting alone." He'd been through all this before, the thankless situation of being yourself indispensable but instantly forgotten the moment you need support of any kind.

"There's a little more to it this time." And the colonel had the slightest of smiles that gave it all away, as though Ward's discovery of his arrest on Kahje had been as fortuitous and unexpected as a planetary alignment. Gable waited for an explanation but the colonel instead moved away from the topic at hand. _Keep me guessing then, bastard. _"There is a memorial to Shepard, you know? Placed after his death, a flame burns for him on Torfan to remember his great victory there." An obvious jibe meant to provoke a reaction in the captain - Torfan was where Shepard earned his nickname of 'butcher' - but he didn't play along and sat in silence until Ward continued, "You were there, on the moon as part of the attack?"

"You know I was, sir."

"Shepard was your company CO was he not?"

Gable snapped, "You know he was. Cut the crap, sir. If you have a question, ask it. If you have a mission, offer it but let's not sit here talking about things we both know already."

Ward looked at Himmen who had serious trouble hiding a smile, "You said he would co-operate, lieutenant."

"He will, sir," Himmen let out a little cough to hide his laughter and stuttered, "He's just rusty on protocol and procedure, N7s get that way sometimes." Ward must have been one of those naval types, Gabled guessed, spent his whole career in a tin can taking and eventually giving out orders. Probably never put his feet on the ground until it was slick with enemy - and marine - blood to watch the Alliance flag being planted.

"What did you make of Shepard, captain?"

"Sir?"

"What did you make of the Commander Shepard when you met?

"Firstly," Gable sat up straight in the chair, "He was still Captain Shepard when we were introduced."

* * *

><p>"Sean," Lieutenant Sterling walked over with a man Sergeant Gable has never met before, an angry looking jobs-worth with an axe to grind, "This is Captain Shepard." Sterling was platoon commander, in charge of twenty five marines divided into five squads. Tall, blonde and with an almost goofy expression constantly spread across his features he made a wonderful juxtaposition to the stern face of Shepard. Who whilst not as tall as the lieutenant commanded far more of a physical presence in armour that gleamed in the harsh lights of the frigate's main hangar. The dozens of other marines nearby were shabby in comparison, their armour scratched, charred and buffed far beyond its original condition. Gable's appearance was no exception and the captain looks less than impressed.<p>

"Sir," Gable saluted and Shepard made him hold it for a second more than was comfortable before he responded with a lift of his own hand.

"Sergeant," Shepard's voice was no-nonsense and he cut through the usual pleasantries, "The lieutenant tells me you're an N7 graduate, same as myself."

"Yes sir," Gable saw where this was going before it went, "Graduated some fifteen years ago now."

"And you're only a sergeant? Seems like a waste."

"Staff sergeant, sir." Gable felt his hands clench into fists of their own accord.

"My mistake," Shepard gave a knowing, patronising smile, "Still, a man with N7 status should set his sights a little higher."

"I did my time riding the gravy train, sir," Gable kept his temper in check and tried to take the officer's attacks in good humour, "Did my fair share of clandestine missions. I prefer it being an actual marine than climbing the command ladder." This made Shepard's smile disappear and his expression remained impassive, as though he imagined snapping Gable's neck. Lieutenant Sterling must have thought the situation was about to come to blows because he stepped in.

"Sergeant Gable was on Elysium two years ago sir, on leave wasn't it Sean?" Who nodded but refused to take his eyes off of Shepard. "He was part of the ground force that held back the batarians."

"A regular war hero?" Shepard made no great effort to feign surprise.

"Just doing my job, sir," Gable had no small amount of hatred for the term, "Nobody who was there would call anything we did heroic. We just killed the bastards until the reinforcements arrived."

"No need to be humble, _staff_ sergeant," Shepard seemed to look through him as he added, "I wish I could have been there." Gable held his tongue. "But now's the time for our revenge. And I am sorry, but I have other squad leaders to meet." Another quick exchange of salutes and Shepard swaggered off.

Lieutenant Sterling held back for a moment, "Don't worry, he's only company CO for this attack, gets made major and then can spend his time worrying which ship can have the pleasure of being polished by his ass."

"Good thing he wasn't on Elysium," Gable flashed Sterling a wicked grin, "Would have been a shame to get a scratch on that armour." Sterling gave him a pleading look and hurried after Shepard. The noise of the hangar returned to the sergeant's ears, the hum of voices and the roar of engine tests on the troop transports. A female AI voice came over the PA system.

_"All personnel. Deployment will commence in two hours. All checks are to be completed in one hour."_

Wait three months for a new, permanent CO, they send one two hours before the invasion and he's a career asshole looking for a quick promotion. But the sergeant had long given up the option of making decisions and would have to make do with trying to ensure the safety of his own squad. He foresaw Shepard giving him of a lot shit, if only for the 'waste' or his training. "I didn't want to end up a prick with his head up his ass." The best responses only ever came after the opportunity to use them had passed.

His squad were servicing equipment when he sauntered over to their company's staging area of the hangar. A quarter of the men were green as grass new guys rotated in to boost numbers for the attack and a small number of the others had seen action on Elysium, Gable knew them all by name (even those in other squads and their sister platoon) though it was the new relative new guys who called out to him.

"Ready to kick some batarian ass, sarge!"

"Fucking payback! Am I right? Am I right?"

A few 'ooh-rah's told him that he was and the marine returned to checking and re-checking his thermal clips for the invasion. The veterans of the fighting on Elysium (two of whom were in Gable's own squad) said nothing on the subject of revenge and you could have been forgiven for thinking that it was only those who weren't there who wanted to get their own back. This couldn't have been further from the truth and although the sergeant would smile at (though never actually encourage) the new guys' posturing, his own desire for revenge was a quiet and personal one. It was etched onto his face for those who knew what to look for and he himself could see it on the faces of those who had been with him two years earlier. Those same faces that had gathered together when the reinforcements arrived and the batarians turned tail.

Maybe it wasn't even their own desire for revenge but a vicarious one from the marines who only made it off Elysium in a bag. Death had surrounded them, lain all around, when they had promised to return the favour if the opportunity arose and two years later there it was, not two hours away from him. "Now's the time for revenge." Shepard had said and Gable wished he had called him on it. _Yeah, but not yours. _He put up with the new guys latching onto the idea of this attack as revenge, a lot of them were kids who were only there instead of jail or desperate for a little bit of action - some would revel in it, others would curse the day they asked for it and some sorry few wouldn't even hear a weapon fired in anger because the round would already have gone through their skull.

Though to hear the officers talk about this attack as a response to the horrors of Elysium always gave Gable a sick feeling. Men who would remain in orbit and share victory handshakes whilst boots on the ground shed blood. Shepard especially, because he was going to be down there with him, barking orders and making decisions to increase his chances of promotion. What was a bigger waste of N7 training, he thought as the platoon's squad leaders formed a loose group, staying a good sergeant who bleeds with his men or clambering over those same grunts for a chance at personal glory? The five sergeants had one thing on their mind as the cigarettes were passed around.

"What a dick."

"Sean, he ask you about two years ago?"

Gable nodded, "Said how much he would have liked to have been there."

"What a dick."

One of the sergeants had replaced Himmen after he was injured on Elysium and it took Gable a long time to look at him without seeing his friend instead, sprawled on the ground, leg hanging by skin and tendons and screaming for his mother. He piped up, "I feel bad for the LT, following him around and making introductions."

"We know anything about him?"

"He's a dick."

"One of the FNGs in my squad says he remembers Shepard from the academy," one sergeant took a long drag, "Although they were in different classes. Out new CO is a biotic with a real chip on his shoulder." There was an awkward silence from the five of them. Anti-biotic sentiments were still prevalent especially in the masochistic, bullying culture of the military. There were a number of biotics at grunt level and they got enough flak from their fellow squad-mates that the leaders agreed to keep their personal opinions to themselves. But the idea of their CO himself being one brought the quiet resentments bubbling to the surface.

"So now I'm watching my ass in case that mutant decides to send a mass field from his fingertips. Christ."

Gable said nothing, he had little experience with biotics and even less opinion on them. Silence returned and eventually it was time.

"Well, I have a private who jams every fifth round so I better make sure he isn't going to get me killed." Smiled agreements, handshakes, fistbumps and headlocks all round.

"See you guys in the dropship," Gable said solemnly, "No doubt Shepard will have a speech or some shit."

* * *

><p>"He was an asshole, sir," Captain Gable shifted uncomfortably in the seat, "I knew he was going to get men killed for no good reason."<p>

"Careful captain," Colonel Ward warned, "You are talking about a superior officer and the hero of the Citadel. The man single-handedly saved the galaxy."

"Doesn't stop him being an asshole, sir."

**A/N: Shepard reached the rank of Commander before he was thirty years old? You don't achieve that without stepping on a few people along the way and it is always fun to write a well known character from a different point of view. Having read this chapter over I realise that I am essentially writing _Apocalypse Now... IN SPACE! _Which is no bad thing but I should be careful not to let the idea overrun my own story. Anyway, read, enjoy and maybe review.**


	4. Chapter 4

"How was Shepard on the ground?" Colonel Ward had pulled up his own chair for the proceedings and it hadn't appeared as part of the projection in front of Gable and Himmen until he came into contact with it. This led to a moment in which Gable was sure Ward was going to fall flat on his ass. "That sort of attitude can grate outside of combat only to have its real place in the heat of battle." _And what would you know about that? _Gable wondered if to the navy colonel the heat of battle meant anything other than the mug of coffee brought to him by some deck hand.

"Well he certainly took his attitude down to the moon with him, sir," Gable had little choice but to humour the colonel and his questions and he saw Himmen lean discretely against a control panel, trying to take his weight off the bad leg, "Lieutenant, pull up a chair and that's an order."

"Of course sir," relief and a smirk spread across his face at the bizarre twisting of friendship and protocol the colonel forced them into with his presence.

"Tell me captain, what happened down on Torfan?"

"There are dozens of officer after-action reports you can read on that subject sir," Gable sighed before he added, "Shepard's included."

"I don't want to hear the old, tired story of the Alliance victory with high losses," War grew restless and squirmed in his sear to get comfortable, "I want to hear your version. What do you think went wrong?"

"You want me to blame Shepard?" Gable guessed, "He made mistakes but he wasn't in any position to take responsibility for the whole debacle."

Though he had guessed wrong, "Captain, I want you to simply answer my questions."

"What went wrong?" Gable stalled as he formulated a succinct response, "The same mistake the Alliance seems to enjoy making." Ward waited, gestured with an open hand and shrug for an answer. "Underestimating the enemy."

* * *

><p>Two battalions, eight companies, sixteen platoons made up of some four hundred marines with nothing to do but wait. A shambolic school circle spread across some ten clicks of grey rock on the gentle slopes of a meandering valley. To look down the one and a half click slope, the eye would be drawn to a landing area in the thin valley floor, large enough for trading vessels and small battle craft. The LZ was full of supply crates and bulk cranes and beyond it was the beginning of the opposite valley wall, a ridge that reached out into the bed with a none-too-discreet entrance at its base. Following the ridge upwards, artificial shelves could be spotted in what quickly rose to become a hill in its own right, carved straight out of the rock. These shelves, dozens spread about both sides of the ridge, continued up the full height of the hill and many were higher than the marines' position. They had quickly revealed themselves to be defensive artillery positions and save the LZ and entrance in the valley, were the only indications of the batarian pirate base. It was easy to tell which guns had an effecting firing position. Shells fell at a steady rate of ten a minute within marine lines.<p>

Torfan was not an interesting place to look at. A desolate moon of rock with varied topography carved out by then-disappeared precipitation. The ground was hard, volcanic with whole areas littered with various sizes of rubble. The marines' position was given decent cover from the batarian guns by large rock formations that jutted out from the ground, revealed long ago by erosion and left to stand like stubby fingers lifting a handful of gravel. Digging in was impossible and the only choice was to play the lottery that the enemy artillery offered. Retreat was hampered by the rear logistics that two battalions bring with them but mostly by superior officers demanding that the men hold fast. Support vehicles lined the ridge of the horseshoe formed by the deployment and their own artillery fired impotently back at the well dug-in batarians.

It had all started so well, the entire deployment down from the frigate went off without a hitch on the other side of the valley. The marines had humped the two clicks up the slope in good humour, expecting an easy enough ground assault down the to base. A welcome, if uneasy surprise awaited as they came over the ridge to find not a single batarian between them and the LZ down in the valley. Recon teams would report the probable artillery placements cut into the hill but were ignored in favour of a quick ground assault. The batarians must have waited until the marines were in range on all sides before they opened up, pinning them down instantly. Whole platoons were carved up by well placed shells in the initial confusion and for some time nothing was spoken, everything was yelled.

"Corpsman! Corpsman!" Never had so many medical personnel been stretched so thin.

Platoon leaders screamed into their radios, "Get those fucking guns up! Give us a second to think!" Though far worse were the yells and noises that Gable couldn't understand. Screeches and gargled screams that emerged from the small craters left by the incoming fire, men coming to terms with horrors beyond the sergeant's imagination. Worse still was the thought that they might live through the most awful of wounds. He remembered Himmen's panicked face back on Elysium that stared straight up at him, blood seeped into the pants under the scorched armour and he asked the question that men hit in the legs always ask, "A-a-are they still there?" Gable did him the honour of checking his genitals remained unscathed and gave him a thumbs up before yelling for morphine. 'The Wound' they called it and a bullet in the head was preferable.

The shells shifted the gravel and smaller rubble into the air. The snap and thunder punctuated by a quick chorus of almost melodic drumming as the dust and stones landed back down on the marines' armour and helmets. Gable's squad made it through the initial bombardment without a scratch and managed to regroup behind a hefty rock formation, tall enough to prevent a stray shell landing on their heads. Everyone else had the same idea and the sergeant imagined it from the batarian perspective, far off insects scurrying out of sight en masse.

The initial surprise soon passed as a bizarre, new normality set in and the men accepted their fate behind their rocks. Sometimes a shell would land close enough to send a shudder through Gable's body but after a half hour of constant bombardment he scarcely so much as flinched at the incoming fire. Behind his rock was himself, the four members of his squad and three marines from other units, including one from an entirely separate company. He had come scrambling in like a mad man having zig-zagged between craters and whistling shrapnel before he leapt down on all fours to safety amongst the squad. A dusty, wide-eyed face had looked up during a respite in the barrage. "Who the fuck are you guys?" he yelled and everybody laughed. And so four hundred men (it would later be reported that ten percent were killed in the initial ambush, with the same number wounded to varying degrees) waited, being told why only made it more frustrating.

Gable's radio crackled, "Second squad, this is two actual."

"Send it," Gable replied, thankful to hear Lieutenant Sterling's voice.

"How you boys holding up down there?"

"We're good sir," Gable looked around the other faces hunkered down behind the rock, "We have two from first and even a stray from alpha."

"You have your squad? One of the lucky ones, I've got other squads spread out over a click or more, seems like everyone just ran for the nearest cover."

"What's your position sir?"

"I am three hundred metres to your six. I'd give you a wave but..." stifled laughter from them both.

"I can't raise Peterson, sir," Gable shared his concern.

"I was going to ask you the same," Sterling's voice turned grave, "He might still turn up." A squad was only in direct radio contact with its squad leader and Peterson's four marines were now out of radio contact with the whole battalion until they met another sergeant who could patch them back in. The system was designed to allow contact between men of equal rank or lower within the same unit to be in contact. This prevented mass, widespread radio chatter and enforced the chain of command. But a break in that same chain left those below out of the loop. Gable thought of Peterson and could only remember the sergeants opinion on Shepard, "What a dick."

"What are we waiting for, sir?"

"Air support, Shepard filled me in on the current plan. Major Kyle has called in a HABS to level that hill," Sterling paused.

"Sir, why didn't they send one in before we came over the ridge?"

"They didn't think it was needed." And if that wasn't just the attack all over, swift action over preparation. Gable imagined a bomber pilot back on the frigate with his feet up receiving a call that he was set for an immediate bombing run and to prep his ship for departure. It was some twenty minutes after Sterling gave him the word that the High Altitude Bomb Strike achieved its goal and in that time more marines would lose their lives from shrapnel. Medevacs were denied due to the level of incoming shells and more than one corpsman lost their lives running between cover to see wounded men, against orders (Gable would read the after action reports incessantly in the following weeks).

The men would never so much as see the warhead, travelling at some immense speed, creating its own mass effect field ahead of it and carving a smooth route down through the atmosphere. What they would spot, those fearless enough to peer out from their hiding places, was a small puff of debris as the bomb entered the hill. By now the bomber would already have left the atmosphere and be back on his way to putting his feet up once more. Sergeant Gable saw none of this though, sat as he was with his back to the rock and throwing pebbles at nothing in particular. There was no explosion, no sound at all to tell them the zero-element warhead had gone off nearby. Instead the ground jumped, the gravel and rubble jumping with it and every marine's stomach felt a sickening turn.

The silence that followed was eerie and deafening, their ears having grown so used to the constant trade of artillery fire. Cheers and shouts began to ripple throughout the two battalions, all to the backdrop of heavy rumbling - the hill sliding down in to the valley on both sides of the ridge. Cries of "git some" and "ooh-rah" rang out above the chatter and the comms net came alive with talk between second platoon's squad leaders. It started to rain dust, those particles too large to form clouds. Gable and his squad rose unsteadily to their feet, the shockwave had dislodged the gravel and each step carried the minor threat of a stumble. Peering round from the rock formation, Gable found the hill and surrounding valley floor entirely obscured by a massive grey cloud of rock dust. One of his squad was at his side, "One guy, one bomb."

Their respite was short-lived as Sterling came over the net, "All bravo-two squad leaders, check your data for my position. Company CO wants a head count." A head count was a waste of time, the same thing could easily be done over the comms. _Shepard wants to flex his bars._ Gable wanted to stay a minute and see what was left of the hill. He had read up on the latest line of Alliance element-zero bunker buster bombs and been in no small amount of awe. It would bore to a pre-calculated depth before detonating. Its yield created a mass-effect barrier bubble some one hundred metres in radius giving four million cubic metres of rock nowhere to go but outward. Not an explosion in the traditional sense but it would send a shockwave strong enough to break a human skeleton at two hundred metres just from the displaced air. Gable had the morbid curiousity to wonder how the Alliance had tested that. Its use on Torfan was the first time he would witness its effects first hand, he wanted to see what was left of the hill, but Shepard would make him wait.

"Bravo company," Shepard boomed, "Fall in." He stood up the slope from them with the two platoon leaders as what remained of bravo company gathered around. Not including the three officers and their gunnery sergeants, there should have been fifty marines shared between ten squads. Forty two were there, minus the six dead and two seriously wounded. There were other wounded amongst those around the captain, but they took the pain with good humour and grit. What caused Gable and the others the most concern was that four of the dead came from one squad.

One private stood shivering on his own, his armour scratched beyond recognition and smeared with blood. Shepard did a roll call by squad_._ _Bastard doesn't know anyone's name yet, probably isn't bothering to remember them at all. _And when it came to second platoon, second squad Gable called out, "All present and accounted for, sir." Though his mind was firmly fixed on what the next response would be.

"Third squad." No reply. Peterson's squad and the one man left was not Sergeant Peterson. "Third squad?" _He's dead, he doesn't have to deal with this bullshit at least. _Shepard became aggitated, "Third squad!" Either the private was too shell-shocked to answer or was too concerned about whether or not he had the authority to do so, either way he stood there and shivered, mouthing words nobody wanted to hear. Captain Shepard was about to cancel his omni-tool and stomp over to the private when Lieutenant Sterling said something quietly to him and he moved on, "Fourth squad."

Sergeant Gable never found out for certain what happened to third squad - it was assumed they got hit by a well-placed shell - the private didn't speak a word of it but his eyes said that whatever did happen to those men, he wished it had happened to him too. After the gathering he would chow and talk with the others and smile at the fellow marines' jokes. But it was as though somebody had gone into his head and removed his smile without so much as telling the private about it, his mouth would go through the motions but the smile simply wasn't there.

"I found him," Sterling and Gable sat away from the rest, working their way through a ration pack, "Kid was carrying a severed forearm and muttering to himself."

"What was he saying?" Gable asked before he realised he really didn't want to know.

"I laughed when he told me and he grinned back at me, 'hey sarge, gimme a hand'," Sterling let a long exhale and continued, "He must have tripped and fell, being down on the deck would have saved him from the shell that took the squad. The grin he gave me Sean, he's _gone_." Hand in hand as the shrapnel took the rest of Sergeant Peterson. The private became a morbid celebrity and split opinion in two as to whether he was good luck or not. If he heard them crack wise about him, he didn't care and spent the following two hours after the roll call staring down at the base's entrance. His ration remained half eaten.

Gable finally got a look at the hill, or where it had been. The ridge had been reduced to a quarter of its original height, rubble and debris had slipped down both sides across the valley floor. In the centre was a perfectly circular crater of high-density rock. The bomb had worked in destroying the hill, but not the base underneath it protected by its own shielding. He knew then that the attack was far from over.

Word came down from Major Kyle that they were going into the base and to wait for further orders. Nobody wanted this, losses were already higher than expected and things could only get worse in the claustrophobic underground complex with an unknown number of batarians just waiting for them to knock on the door. Murmurs and mutterings went around the men at the thought of entering such a quagmire. "What about the kid?" Gabled asked the lieutenant, "Are we sending him in there with us?"

"Shepard says we need every man," Sterling's goofy face was smeared with dirt and dust, but the sergeant could see the sympathy, "But I'll see what I can do." The private was signed off by Sterling as section eight and took a place on the last medevac to leave the lines before the attack commenced. Gable saw him approach the shuttle and ignore the offer of a hand to help him on. The sergeant then joined the other four platoon squad leaders to remember Peterson, sharing water from the lost man's mangled canteen.

* * *

><p>"You're critical of Shepard's actions and decisions," Ward spoke as a matter-of-fact, "But I can't help but wonder what you would have done differently had you been in his shoes." The colonel leaned forward in his chair, hands interlocked between his knees.<p>

"Nothing, sir, " Gable answered honestly, "Had I been given the command of a company two hours before an attack, I wouldn't have wanted to know anybody either. And I wouldn't have cared about the sole survivor of third squad."

"What was his name? The survivor?" Gable couldn't remember and the colonel gave him a cold smile, "No, I suppose you wouldn't have done anything differently."

"I didn't allow myself to get into Shepard's position sir," Gable tried to retrieve some pride, "Some hot shot who arrived too late to be a hero on Elysium. I didn't choose to be there when the batarians attacked, no man can decide his fate in such a way. Shepard was there to avenge an attack he played no part in defending against and with a company of men he had no ties to. We were fucked from the outset."

"You ever wonder what might have happened had your roles been reversed?"

"If Shepard had been some 'Hero of Elysium'? I don't play 'what if' sir, nobody gets to make choices like that."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: It can be hard sometimes writing scenes of war without glamorising the whole thing, but I hope I managed to capture a little bit of the horror. Quick shout out to those who reviewed, thank you.**


	5. Chapter 5

How many hours were they down there, beneath the Torfan rock? How many rooms did they clear, strobed by flickering lights? How many long corridors did Shepard order Gable's squad to take point down? How many men did he lose that day? Three, the only statistic that mattered, three of four and the man who remained at his side did so as little more than a husk. Corporal Mandern's body moved and reacted as ordered but Gable could see the man's mind, heart and soul were elsewhere - somewhere closer to the surface of Torfan. Each level the marines went deeper into the pirate base took a little bit more of them. Gable's squad went through seven levels, seven warehouses and their connecting corridor of offices. The base was split into four wings of ten levels, first battalion was sent in and a company sent down each area of the base. Each wing had its own cargo lift between warehouses, but the batarians had cut power to them and bravo company found their own stuck on the fifth basement level. The stairs became a chore. The offices and warehouses came in such a disorientating routine that by the fourth repetition Lance Corporal Flynn, a handsome bastard of a man called out, "How do we know this isn't the same level and we're going round in circles?" It was a joke, the differences were obvious.

If Gable's squad was on point and they often were - "Sean, Shepard says you guys are going in first. Sorry." - then the long warehouse would be quiet as a crypt when they entered. Being on point meant being the bait, drawing out the batarians who were inevitably lying in wait. Sergeant Gable would convince himself they were behind every reinforced concrete column, every cargo crate and large hunk of machinery. He would hear hushed whispers up toward the ceiling and quiet footsteps on the cross-hatched gangplanks above their heads. The battle between his eyes and the rest of his senses, between seeing any empty room and knowing it just wasn't true. Being on point was an exercise in getting in there and getting it over with whilst keeping an eye on the nearest cover for when things went south. And they always did. Death was with them on every ambush and was very patient.

There was the batarian who jumped out ahead of the rest and gave the game away. Gable allowed himself a small, cruel smile as he dropped the stammering slaver with a burst from his assault rifle and fell in behind a crate as the first volley came from the others, forced to spring their ambush early. That was the second warehouse down when the enemy were still taking the marines on at their own game with small squads in a straight firefight. Inferior weapons and inferior training meant ten batarian dead to one marine wounded. Flynn took a thermal round to the arm, flesh still seared as he returned fire and dropped his assailant - he would seek out the corpse for further retribution. Tensions were high and the psychological see-saw between constant, impending threat and outbursts of violence took its toll.

After taking each warehouse or long corridor of small, cluttered offices, those on point would wait for the rest of the platoon to catch up. The marines' adrenaline would be running high, thumping hard in the temples only for them to be reigned back in again by Lieutenant Sterling, "Shepard says don't get strung out." _The hell does he know? _Shepard and first platoon remained one level further up, mopped up the messes second platoon left in their wake, searched for intel and questioned what few survivors the marines didn't notice. _Or so he says._ Even Gable wanted to keep pushing forward, to keep the sharpness that came with his combat high and let the next batarian into his sights. After each firefight he would sit with his squad, hand on the barrel on his rifle, letting the heat pass through glove to skin. It was in the next corridor of wretched offices, full to the brim with stolen equipment that he lost the first member of his squad.

The enemy's tactics changed. The third basement level's corridor was empty all the way to end (the two previous had contained at least two rifles lying in wait), some fifty metres of bright lights and off-white panelling.

"Sean-" Sterling began.

"I know, I know." All the lieutenant could give him was a gloved hand on an armoured shoulder, Gable didn't so much as feel it.

Each office, each doorway became a mental ordeal. His heart would jump each time he left cover to look inside, Flynn would move round him and check the room, covered by his squad leader from the door. They took one side of the corridor, another squad took the other. The pounding in his chest would pull back only a little when he heard Flynn call, "Clear!" with a thumbs up and a shitkicker grin across his perfect jawline. Through the motions, over and over until eventually they _wanted _a batarian to jump out and try his luck, just to make all the tension worth while. The second to last room they found the enemy. A snivelling, stuttering wreck that hid in a corner and begged for his life. All four eyes darting between Gable and Flynn whilst the latter went by.

"I've got him, Flynn," Gable said, sights trained on the batarian's jittery body, "Check the rest of the room."

He did so, "All clear, sarge."

"Get four-eyes to his feet, we'll send him back up to Shepard for questioning."

Flynn stepped between Gable and the wretch, "Get the fuck up-" The lance corporal probably saved his sergeant's life by standing where he did and taking the brunt of the blast. Though Gable was still thrown off balance out of the doorway, went he re-entered he found a horrific sight. The batarian was gone, incinerated by what appeared to have been a rigged plasma grenade under him and the front Flynn's armour was red-hot and cracked open, revealing heavily burnt flesh. The smell made Gable want to hurl and he glanced at the once handsome features, now burnt and black beyond recognition. Some furniture was set aflame, the heat was palpable. A corpsman from fourth squad was in the doorway behind him, "Sean?"

"Give it a few minutes before moving him, doc," Gable rose slowly to his feet and scratched at the short, greying hair on his head, "Kid's still cooking in his armour." He pushed passed the looks of disbelief and stood in the hall, light smoke crept over the doorway and up to the ceiling. He hadn't lost a man since the Blitz and now that he had once more, it was to some sneaky bullshit of all things. He snapped, dropped his rifle that had hung as loose as his arm and began thumping his helmet into the wall.

"Sarge," Corporal Mandern, who came into second squad an FNG at Elysium and emerged the other side heavy one divorce and ten confirmed kills, "Come on sarge, we gotta keep going down." _Got to keep going down. Absolutely fucking right. Until not one batarian lung still draws breath._

They wanted to fight dirty, that was fine; marines fight dirtiest. After the first rigged device, the softy softly approach went out the window and Sterling set the new rules before they started down the numerous flights to third basement warehouse, "Free fire now boys, you so much as think you see something you shoot it. None of this one squad bait bullshit that Shepard has us on. Sweep and clear." The following warehouse was an exercise in what twenty marines let off the leash were capable of. The vast space was covered in efficient and brutal fashion. The pirates and slavers were overwhelmed, fifteen of them with no time to spring their ambush. Two tried to flee and were dead soon after their discarded weapons had stopped rattling on the concrete floor.

Another tense trudge down flights of stairs to the next line of offices, basement level four. Again, empty but Gable had learnt his lesson and checked the offices once more, Corporal Mandern filled in for the late Flynn. Another batarian was found, clutching a bullet wound in one of the abandoned rooms. Gable didn't blink as he tossed his own plasma grenade in without so much as checking the rest of the room. He took some small, sick pleasure in the look on the enemy's face before he moved back out to cover. The queer smile, as though the grenade at his feet was the punchline to some sick joke. "Fire in the hole!"

The fourth level warehouse was a different matter and the batarian slavers were ready with a heavy machine gun placement and better quality equipment. Evenly matched in numbers, the marines had to fight for every inch they moved forward. More than once did Gable feel rounds glance off his armour and disappear into a puff of concrete dust, his life saved by the angle of incidence. A marine squad to his right were split up by fire from the MG placement, entrenched amongst several cargo crates at the far end of of the warehouse.

"Two-two, this is two-four -" static in Gable's ear, "That MG is fucking my shit up and I have bunch of them flanking me to join the party."

"Copy, two-four," Gable caught one of the flanking enemy in the legs with his rifle and sent him tumbling, "Mandern!"

"Sarge?" Their voices hoarse from telling over the noise.

"You got an angle on the MG?"

"I can see the gun, not the gunner," and the corporal added what Gable didn't want to hear, "You'll need him to look this way, sarge!"

_Don't miss. _Corporal Mandern ran in a low crouch to a better firing position and switched scopes on his assault rifle. Gable ignored the inaccurate potshots as he emerged from cover to plant rounds into the crates around the MG, its fire stopped as the barrel turned toward him. It all seemed like the worst idea in the world as high calibre rounds peppered his position. "Mandern!" he yelled as crumbling chunks of concrete fell from a column onto his helmet. Gable went prone and could only wonder what was in the crate taking such punishment to keep him alive.

"One second, sarge," Mandern was the squad's marksman. Out in the open he could nail a headshot at two kilometres and was depressingly humble about it ("The rifle does most of the work"). Indoors he could be trusted to bring that same precision to solve different problems. The MG stopped firing, fourth took care of the flanking batarians, the skirmish was eventually under control and the marines emerged triumphant. Another twenty enemy dead or dying and the wounded were a good way of relieving the stress, though the look on the face of a marine as he re-holstered his pistol would put a shiver through anyone. The warehouse was near silent again and the chemical reek of spent thermal clips clung to everything. It was a morale boost to take another area with few casualties - though three of their nineteen were too wounded to continue. This boost was short lived.

Curiousity got the better of Gable and he wrenched open the crate with his combat knife to find it full of armour panelling for Alliance shuttle craft, lined up perpendicular to the MG. He laughed, for the first time since he headed underground. Mandern came over, laughed too and punched his squad leader in the shoulder, "Lucky fuck." Gable only heard the sounds of the event come at him in unison and only saw its gruesome aftermath when he eventually turned round. There was a screech of metal and a loud clang. A high-pitched wail and a dozen shouted curses as marines click off their safety. A dull, electric drone, an otherworldly scream from three voices and a tearing of armour and flesh as though they were both paper. All of it was silenced by the crackling melody of several rifles. Everything else was explained by one marine, muttering above the rest, "Biotic piece of shit."

Who knows how long the batarian had hid in the drainage grate, the space he had emerged from was scarcely big enough for a child. Crouched down in the foetal position, listening to his fellow pirates and slavers die and the enemy making jokes about it afterward. Lieutenant Sterling saw the whole thing, "Jumped up and launched a singularity at the largest group he could see. Killed three, including your man Lehanne and broke gunny's arm." Killed was an understatement, one private had been all but turned inside out. Nobody dared touch the blood-smeared lump of stretched and warped armour. Sterling put a finger to his ear, "Send it. Copy sir, we'll sit tight. Shepard's coming down to join us."

"I feel safer already," Gable spat on the batarian biotic's bullet-riddled corpse.

* * *

><p>"Before you go any further," Colonel Ward reached aside from his seated position and his hand danced slightly in the air as he accessed something outside of the projection, "I wanted you to listen to this, recorded about a year after Torfan. Private First Class Sanders from first platoon's fifth squad, I think, was trapped with a very messy rape charge involving an asari and he was told that giving his version of Shepard's actions on the moon would help his case."<p>

Gable smirked as Ward started the audio file, "Blackmail seems to be an Alliance speciality."

Sanders' voice was strained and husky, breathing heavily. _"After the two platoons hooked back up, the men came up with a plan to really mess with the batarians on the level below. Let them know we weren't messin', you know?..." _

Ward spoke during an artificial pause in the voice, "The interrogator's questions and comments have been removed for the sake of his anonymity."

_"Well sir, we were all pissed after hearing about the biotic and all, real sneaky fuck. Even if we all thought he had some set of stones hiding down there and attacking the way he did... ...Sorry sir, we took them, the bodies I mean sir and piled them up near the freight elevator... ...About twenty or so, sir... ...I'm not naming no names, sir. Not everyone was happy about it but we all agreed to never talk about it... ...You've left me with no choice sir, got my nuts in a vice about what happened with the asari. I'll tell you what happened to help my case, but I ain't a rat... ...It took some doing sir, but we managed to override the lock on the elevator doors and pry the damn things open... ...If the skipper had an issue with what we did he sure didn't mention it at the time. The LT wasn't going to get in the way of thirty-off pissed off marines neither. Some of the squad leaders were involved... ...No names sir, I told you... ...We peered down, some thirty metre drop but the elevator was down there on the fifth basement... ...Didn't know for sure if there were any four-eyes down there, sure was quiet. But there was an ambush on every level up to that one and we could see the doors were open down there too... ...The hell you think happened next sir? Threw the fuckers down. Hell of a noise a body can make, we did the suicidal biotic last... That was all... ...That's the truth sir-" _

There was a meaty thump on the tape, followed by a cry of aguish. _"Fuck! Fine, a satchel charge too. Just tell that fucking gorilla to lay off... ...The charge was an afterthought. Figured it was worth making a mess down there... ...Boy sir, did it ever! You ain't ever seen a mess like the one that thing made!... ...You weren't there sir. All due respect but you ain't in a position to tell me it was an overreaction." _Colonel Ward cancelled the playback at that point and continued the questions.

"That's about it went down, sir," Gable didn't deny it.

"How deep did you go, Captain?" Ward sounded exasperated, perhaps he had hoped against hope that PFC Sanders' confession had been of his own creation.

"Seven basement levels, sir," Gable then added, "First platoon took the last three with Shepard in the lead."

"Why did he do that?"

"We were below fighting strength after the seventh, only ten men of the original twenty five."

"Did Shepard fair any better?"

"No sir, first suffered similar losses. They saved the toughest batarians for the deeper levels of the base, the way I heard it."

Ward talked slowly and deliberately, as though his mind were ahead of his mouth, "Second platoon were told to stay put?"

"Yes sir, until first came back up with the prisoners."

"How many?"

"Six sir," Gable then gave a little smirk, "Though I hear one tripped and fell down a few flights of stairs. Clumsy bastards, the batarians."

Ward was far from impressed at the captain's unsavoury joke, "They wouldn't make it to the surface would they?"

"No sir, Shepard saw to that," Gable slumped in his chair as he remembered, "Major Kyle came over the net, wanted the captain topside ASAP. Shepard told him about the POWs, Kyle said to leave them with us and head on up."

"And then he shot the hostages?"

"Yessir, one after the other for no reason, like it was nothing at all. Guy was a stone-cold killer, no mercy."

Ward went off topic for a moment, "Of the four companies in the battalion, only yours returned to the surface without a single hostage, did you know that?"

"Shepard was the one who saw to that, sir," Gable didn't understand.

"Captain Gable," Ward sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, "Given the choice between killing the hostages and leaving them in the care of you and the other marines who tossed twenty corpses down an elevator shaft. I would have done the same thing as Commander Shepard."

"Batarians, sir," Gabled sneered, "Deserve everything they get."

**A/N: Took me a while to come with a little twist I was pleased with. I was worried that Gable was becoming too likeable, since we were only hearing his side of events. Really wanted to make the reader question his entire story of Torfan and his reasons for being there. Gable is a man hopelessly driven by revenge and utterly unable to admit that to himself. The next chapter should be up a little sooner than this one and will move away from the past, discuss Gable's mission and maybe even introduce the source of information, 'Phalanx'. Read, enjoy, review. The usual.**


	6. Chapter 6

**"I was going to the worst place in the world, and I didn't even know it yet. Weeks away and hundreds of miles up a river that snaked through the war like a main circuit cable and plugged straight into Kurtz. It was no accident that I got to be the caretaker of Colonel Walter E. Kurtz's memory, any more than being back in Saigon was an accident. There is no way to tell his story without telling my own. And if his story is really a confession, then so is mine."**

**Captain Willard - _Apocalypse Now_**

* * *

><p>Colonel Ward had heard enough and the transmission was cut off as quickly as it had begun. The pain in Gable's body ebbed and flowed as he sat there weighing the colonel's words. He turned to Himmen who had remained silent during the final revelations of both Gable and Shepard's actions on Torfan, "He didn't even offer me a mission, the hell was all that about?"<p>

"No need for an offer Sean, you don't have a choice," Himmen made for an exit from the deck, "I have to get back to the helm." The lieutenant left Gable only with his thoughts and memories, trying desperately to put everything in order. Images flashed back to him, thoughts that usually only appeared in dead of night; the sole survivor of third squad, blood-spattered and muttering. The broken, porous body of the batarian biotic leaking into in the drain he had concealed himself in and tumbling down onto a pile of dead comrades. Their bodies broken and twisted from the fall. Four dead eyes stared back up the elevator shaft, accusing him. His mind went further back, to Elysium and the then Sergeant Himmen on his back, leg all but gone. His screams of agony and eyes as accusing of Gable as the batarian's.

"A-are they still there?" And Gable had checked for 'the wound' knowing full well now that wasn't what he had meant. Himmen's squad was gone, they weren't still there. _They weren't still anywhere._ He had wanted to lead men into battle, the answer he should have given Shepard when he questioned the 'waste' of his training. Instead, after graduation, he was deemed more suitable for special and deniable operations. They trained him to kill but never warned him how much he could grow to like it, that the rush he would get when the first round cracked passed his ear was second to none. Then they sat him down in a psychological test and told him he was borderline sociopathic, grounds for special operations in the Alliance military. Grounds for less savoury things back in the world.

Years of doing questionable things he would never have to answer for. The Citadel's much-revered Spectres were famously above the law but the Alliance had many operatives who simply worked outside of it. The briefs would come from holograms with pixelated faces and scrambled voices, the payments from who knows where, some government front shop created solely for paying people like him. He imagined an office somewhere, where no communications are ever answered or replied to.

Shepard went through the same training Gable did, what made him so special that he was thrust straight into combat leadership? _Pro-biotic liberalism_, he would tell himself. He'd never had to spent three days on some desolate rock of a moon waiting for a high profile target, watching your oxygen slowly count down to zero - the only way he could find to pass the time. Shepard had taken the blame (and the nickname) on Torfan and Gable had said nothing, he understood this now. The surviving marines of bravo company would mutter into their battered metal coffee mugs about 'Shepard the Butcher' when they returned up to the moon's surface. The name would spread about the fleet as the 'Butcher of Torfan' and he made no attempt to deny it - made no attempt to say anything whatsoever about it.

It was soon picked up by media types, hand-picked journalists forced to remain in orbit and closely monitored when interviewing those marines who came back up to the frigates. Vultures picking at the numb minds of weary soldiers. Gable had ignored their pleas for a few words but overheard those of others;

"Hey! Hey you! What happened down there?"

"We fucking won, that's what." Shell-shocked faces with cameras shoved into them, put on parade for the people back 'home'.

"And the Butcher? How many batarians did he murder?"

"He ain't the butcher cos he shot those four-eyed fucks." Almost none of this would make it onto the broadcasts, too raw and real. Not to mention that it was a better angle for public consumption that the name was earned for Shepard's execution of the prisoners of war, as though the marines who were there were shocked and appalled at the captain's actions. Conscientious objectors would keep quiet about the actions of officers, for fear of the shitstorm that would come rolling down the chain of command. It was easier for Gable to blame Shepard than himself, than to admit he was no leader of men.

And after Torfan? For many there was no 'after', their remains were shipped back up to fleet and the boxes laid neatly out in rows and columns. The ceremony was brief and pompous, all sorts of brass turned out for the show and gave their worthless two cents. Gable lined up with the rest, as neatly as the boxes, behind Shepard and Kyle. He was clean and clean-shaven, having fallen asleep in the shower on his feet. It had only been a day down there yet as soon as he stopped moving his body tried to shut itself down. The hot water found the wounds and scratches from shrapnel gone unnoticed in the heat of battle. Four marines back from the grey rock were in the showers, completely unaware of each other, lost in their own private world. Blood and dirt circled the drain.

A lieutenant came to the entrance and told them to hurry it up. The four ignored him and Gable let the water run over his ears to drown out all other noise, he imagined it was what drowning would sound like. The lieutenant's boots clicked against the tiles as he entered and he repeated his order.

"Fuck off," a naked marine turned to stare at the officer and Gable laughed to himself.

"What's your name?" the officer turned red, "I'll have you in the brig for disobeying a superior."

"For all you know, I'm a general," Gable recognised the marine as anything but, he was a private from first platoon, "Now fuck off." All four were staring at him now with the only the sound of running water, his uniform pressed and not a hair out of place. He eventually muttered something about grunts and stormed back out.

Gable had wondered during the ceremony how much Shepard and Kyle had to clean themselves up for the proceedings. Shepard have proved he could get his hands dirty if it came to it, leading first platoon all the way to the bottom of the base on Torfan. But Kyle? The major would retire soon after, consumed with guilt over what would happened and the word was he had become a teacher of gifted biotics. _Must have been tough, making the ultimate sacrifice of other men's lives. _Although a victory, Torfan came at a high cost of men and morale.

Yet somehow Shepard came out of it smelling of roses and continued his rise through the ranks unabated. Gable on the other hand was given three weeks forced R&R and spent them drinking himself under tables at far-flung Alliance outposts. Awoken with a start in the night by visions of bloated, batarian corpses offering him Shepard's dogtags. Their skin would stretch and sag as they grinned and grimaced. His orders came at the end of his forced vacation to return to Arcturus Station for redeployment. He was to be promoted to second lieutenant for his 'brave and selfless' actions on Torfan - it all reeked of bullshit wrapped up in red tape - and would be put in the with latest batch of N7 graduates for a return to deniable operations.

"You're too good to waste in the meat grinder," a lieutenant colonel told him at his briefing. But his newest conversation with Colonel Ward made him look back on those words with different eyes, _"I think it's better that the only life in your hands is your own." _And while Shepard went off to save the galaxy and become the first human Spectre, Lieutenant Sean Gable returned to his life as a ghost. A life he spent ten years trying to get away from.

He had fallen asleep in his memories and awoke to find dribble in his beard. Rising unsteadily to his feet, Gable searched the still mysterious craft for the helm. Himmen had left him in a hurry when Ward had signed off and Gable thought they were better friends than that. Friends? Were they really? Fellow squad leaders in the run-up to the Skyllian Blitz and then... then the guilt. Himmen's wound was Gable's doing and he felt a responsibility for the lieutenant's well-being, something he always lied to himself about being a friendship.

The vessel had seen better days. Much of the panelling had disappeared and the ship's guts were on open display. Masses of pipes and wiring snaked their way between decks and rooms, a full-functioning, tangled mess. Gable could only guess that it wasn't even an Alliance craft he was on but a second-hand wreck, battered and bruised beyond any suspicion. A pirate or slaver would be more than happy to get their hands on Alliance personnel. He flat-footed his way along rickety gangplanked flooring, his joints still ached with the effort but the painkillers had kicked in. He found the helm in a similar state to the rest, more like a cramped cockpit - all dials and blinking lights.

"How long?" Gable rested against the door-frame.

"An hour or so," Himmen didn't so much as turn, "How long since you were on Arcturus Station?"

"Two years," Gable reflected, "Been out for so long that being dragged back in feels wrong." The captain looked once more over the cramped conditions. _So how is this any better than an office? _Awkward silence resumed, small talk extinguished. "You want to give me the heads up on this 'Phalanx' guy? Let me know what I'm getting myself into."

Himmen looked out across the void of black, the light of the stars invisible against the brightness of the cockpit. "You wouldn't believe me if I did tell you."

Colonel Ward managed the seemingly impossible task of being more of an asshole in person than he seemed in holographic form. Gable had cleaned up and changed into military issue shirt and pants, fitting right in the with myriad collection of Alliance personnel going about their various duties. Not a grunt among them, all fresh-faced boys and the forgotten middle-aged, middle-ranked masses. If the grunts were the fingers that formed the fists of the Alliance then those who then surrounded Gable were the vital organs. The cogs who made the whole machine keep going, kept the whole Alliance war machine rolling.

Somewhere in the bowels of the station were the three and four stars, generals who sent men to their graves on a massive scale and made the really big decisions. Once the Alliance military got fixed on an idea (or an enemy) it wasn't very often that politics got in the way. Expansion always comes first and the batarians had long replaced the turians as the current major obstacle.

"Welcome home, captain," Colonel Ward shifted his ever-increasing weight between weary legs and waited for Gable's customary salute.

He gave it, "Home, sir?"

"The station is every marine's true home," Ward seemed pleased with his idea, "No matter how far out you stray, you all eventually find your way back."

"By choice, sir?" Gable heaped on the sarcasm.

"By one means or another."

"With all due respect sir, I'd rather just meet the source, get the brief on the mission and then get the hell off this collection of tin cans," Gable was nervous, being then still technically a deserter.

"Calm yourself, captain," Ward smiled an unnerving crease across his fat face, "Nobody would think to look for you here." The colonel hadn't used Gable's name since they had met, the moment he stepped off of the shuttle, any bio-scans and security checks had been passed with a flash of Ward's identification. The whole situation did not sit well with Gable, he was used to subterfuge but this was different. He got the distinct impression that the colonel would be in just as much trouble as him if they were found together. He waited until they were very much alone, walking along a lengthy corridor to the station's supply depot, before approaching the subject.

"Nobody else knows I'm here, do they sir?"

"It's worse than you think," Ward spoke solemnly, "I reported that you died in drell custody." Gable stopped walking, his first instinct was to throttle the colonel where he stood. Throw him to the ground, straddle his barrel-chest and dig his fingers into the fat neck until he stopped squirming. Plausible deniability to the extreme, a ghost sent after a ghost. His second thought was to shoot a hole in the nearest window and try to scuttle the whole station. But he settled and started to wonder if the sweaty colonel - so used to the sedentary life of navy brass - hadn't done him a favour and wiped the slate clean.

"You can still walk away." But Gable was lost in thought, reeling from learning of his premature demise at slimy drell hands. "Captain? You hear me? You can still walk away from all this."

"What do you mean?"

"Forcing you to accept this mission would raise to many awkward questions. I can't stop you leaving." They were outside the entrance to the bulk storage deck, too close to back down now. _Why would a source be in storage? _

"Himmen told me I wouldn't have a choice, sir," Gable remembered the exchange after the revelations.

"The lieutenant knows you better than I," Ward thought out loud, "I'm giving you a choice but something tells that for you there simply is no choice on the matter. Not where Shepard is concerned." The name was spoken in a revered whisper that sent a bolt of disgust through Gable. He felt like correcting his superior officer and saying the wretched name aloud for none to hear - the colonel had even whispered between just the two of them. The man was already a legend, not two years dead and tales of his deeds were no doubt told as bed-time stories to young boys as though he were a knight of old.

Himmen was right, there was never going to be a choice. Follow Shepard's trail and see where it took him, what else was there?

"So captain?"

"Let's meet this source."

A/N: It has been more than a few weeks and I apologise to the handful of people following my story.


	7. Chapter 7

**"Everyone gets everything he wants. I wanted a mission and for my sins, they gave me one. Brought it up to me like room service. It was a real choice mission, and when it was over I'd never want another."**

**Captain Willard - _Apocalypse Now_**

* * *

><p>Gable splashed his face with the cold water and again before he lifted it back into view in the mirror. The swelling had all but subsided, replaced with dull purple and yellowing bruising. The tap flowed down into the white ceramic sink and the light hummed in the ceiling above him. Beads of water hung on the grey whiskers and his brain pounded at his skull. <em> What have I gotten myself into? <em>He pushed a hand through his hair and filled his lungs with a long, steady inhale. _There has to be some drink in here somewhere. _He stumbled backward too quickly for the door's sensor and bumped into it as it opened with a quiet hiss. Colonel Ward's quarters were ornate and yet somehow restrained; pictures lined the walls, mostly of the man himself shaking hands with some very important people. The pictures were easily put into a chronological order after a brief inspection, with Ward becoming increasingly large in the waist and bereft of hair as time passed. An oak table was the room's focal point, a few knuckle taps told the captain that it was the real deal and he set about looking through the drawers.

Family photos, a side-arm, painkillers and various stationary. No bottle. Drawer slammed back shut, Gable turned his attentions to the steel shelves that lined one wall, a decent collection of classic literature and general history. Not interested in the colonel's academic interests, he reached to the top of the shelves and felt his way along the cold, metallic frame until... _Gotcha. _His fingers felt glass and grasped hold of the bottle's neck. Ward had expensive tastes, twelve years old and cask strength. Just under half the bottle remained, sloshing within as Gable inspected it with trembling hands. Enough to make the last hour of his life seem like a distant memory. Even with the colonel's enormous leather chair behind the desk, he slumped to the floor with his back against the bookcase and legs stretched out in front. A satisfying plonk accompanied his opening the bottle and he took a long swig of scotch.

Too eager in his drinking and amber blotches appeared on the chest of his grey shirt. He spluttered and the liquid rolled back to the bottom of the bottle as he placed it gently on the finely carpeted floor, fingers lazily holding onto the neck. He stared at the wall opposite, next to the door of the en suite he had just attempted to waken himself up in and focused on the fire in his belly. Ward's words came back to him, "Get the hell out of here! Here! My keys, go lie down for a while!"

The source, Phalanx, had been blunt and straight to the point. Asked questions of Gable he found very difficult to answer, churned up moments from his career that he would have preferred stayed locked away. Things even Ward had known better than to mention, but Phalanx had no concept of tact or subtlety. He hadn't known what to expect and cursed his curiousity now. Worst case, he had imagined being forced to team up with a batarian and work side by side with his most hated foe. But in his wildest dreams, his most far-fetched flight of fancy, he had never thought that the colonel's 'indisputable source' would be none other than a _Geth. _Or "just geth" as the machine itself had corrected his initial exclamation.

* * *

><p>Ward had led him to the shipping container, explained it was 'closed off' and Gable hadn't quite understood at first the level to which this was the case. The crate was air tight (a clue he should have picked up on) and jammed against all forms of communication and radiation. It was some three metres squared in profile and ten metres long. The hatched door needed both men to open and groaned on its thick hinges as it closed behind them, leaving them in pitch black. Ward's sudden voice gave the captain a small start, "Lights." Red bulbs emerged on either wall and cast them each a strong silhouette. "Start up sequence, Ward, alpha, six, five, niner." They had entered a space only the volume of the container with another hatch presumably leading to the rest, and to Phalanx. Gable kept his mouth shut, not bothering to ask questions that would be answered with the opening of the next bulkhead. The groan of the second hatch echoed and lurched in the stale air as the two men exerted themselves against the weight.<p>

"Lights."

A single chair sat in the middle of the floor and in that, motionless, frozen... "That's a fucking _geth_!"

"Just geth." The voice came from nowhere, a flat and monotonous drone that was as like to bore you to death as intimidate. The word choice was succinct, nothing wasted. The hazard lights coloured the machine a dull pink and a blue ring shone from its 'eye'. It didn't move, couldn't move Gable would later discover. A trail of cables and wires ran from it to a power source that buzzed quietly in one corner.

"This container was found on Solcrum, some irradiated death trap in the Armstrong Nebula. Which was interesting enough. An untraceable, wrecked freighter, crew dead, no paper work either. Some Salarian trader thought the container itself might be worth something and it wasn't until he got it off the moon that he realised how much it was really worth. I was lucky to talk to him first," Ward explained, "Thing is completely impervious to all scanning equipment."

"They didn't want anybody to know they had this thing inside."

"Precisely," Ward continued, "Once he knew what was contained within, the Salarian wanted to get it off his hands as quick as possible." Gable was nervous about stepping any closer, he had seen what geth could do to a fully-armoured marine, let alone in his current state.

"Can it see us?" the captain pointed haphazardly.

"Yes. Captain Gable," it spoke for itself, "You appear somewhat different to your scan on file."

"Its information is at least four months old," Ward walked around the chair, hands firmly on hips, "Figure that's when it was locked up."

"By who?"

"We have no clue and it can't tell us either," the colonel's face was like stretched rubber in the low light, "Quarian is our best bet though, since somebody has managed to separate its functions and placed kill switches on each."

"So it can only see and speak?"

"Cognitive pathways are online," Phalanx answered again.

Gable ignored the geth, "So this is your source? One of Saren's robotic mooks?" The captain laughed, starting to wonder if the whole ordeal had been a waste of his time.

Ward shrugged, "We have found things to be a little more complex than that in regards to geth allegiances." Gable was then given the whole story between Ward and Phalanx's answers to his many questions, although they were all directed to the colonel. The geth still made him wary, however helpful the answers or non-hostile the demeanour. As far as he was concerned these so-called 'good' geth were simply using humans for their own ends, same as the 'heretics' did with Saren.

"Why Shepard?" Gable's first question directed straight at the machine.

"Shepard destroyed one of the Old Machines," Phalanx responded, "We wish to speak with him. Learn." _Again with the mythos and celebrity. Hero of the Citadel, loved by Council races and geth alike. _Enough to make the captain spit, anyone would think Shepard had torn off Sovereign's tentacles with his bare hands.

"It means the Reapers," Ward interjected.

"Thanks," Gable rolled his eyes, "I got that much." Phalanx remained completely motionless, sat stone-still in the chair with its voice emanating. "Shepard is dead, Phalanx."

"Perhaps," Phalanx stated.

"Do you believe he is still alive?"

"Our directive is to find him, not to speculate."

"How many geth are searching?"

Ward spoke again with a small chuckle, "A question with many answers."

"We are one thousand, two hundred and twenty six geth programs," Phalanx gave the simplest response, "We make up this platform."

Gable caught on and folded his arms, "How many _platforms_ are searching?"

"Three."

"How have you searched?"

"Using your military network and other sources." Phalanx's answers were direct, seemed honest and whatever Gable's feelings about the machine itself, he was at least appreciative of that.

He made mental notes, "What have you got on him so far?"

"Personal history, Normandy logs, personal logs of Shepard and crew, after action reports, copies of Council meeting minutes, news repor-"

The captain cut Phalanx off, "Everything then?"

"Yes."

Gable looked over to Ward, "I will have full access to its data?"

"Of course and as much as my clearance will allow in terms of other resources," Ward continued, "A ship, weapons."

"Just the ship and a steady supply of credits," Gable's mind ran with it now, follow Shepard's paper trail and see the truth behind the myth of the man made legend. He even allowed himself a small, perhaps impossible thought; catch up to him alive. But there was one obvious and large unknown quantity that sat before him, "What happens when you switch it on fully?"

"It tries to escape," Ward sighed and pinched one of his chins, "We tested all the different kill switches and capabilities first. The moment we allowed mechanical movement it went for a guard's weapon and broke his wrist in the process. By the time we flicked the switch it had shot one other guard in the belly."

"Not fatal," from an organic mind and mouth it would have sounded like an excuse.

Gable almost allowed himself a little respect for the geth platform at hearing this, "I don't much enjoy being in captivity either." A moment's lapse to think of the machine as something more that he needed to shake from his mind.

"You two have more in common than you know," Ward smiled his knowing grin, "Neither of you officially exist and it is in both your best interests to accept my offer." Although something told Gable that Phalanx would not be able to simply walk away from this if it declined. More likely he would be sent away for diagnostic butchery or locked away forever.

"How many know about Phalanx?" the first time he had used the name since discovering it was geth.

The machine responded, "Seven." _Insurance, _thought Gable, _if this thing all goes tits up. A kill-list._

"Eight," Ward corrected, "One more visited before we accessed the visual circuitry." _One more name to try and find out._ What was obvious was the usefulness of the geth and it's ability to effortlessly access networks and stores of information, not bad to have in a fire-fight either. But it would prove less than useless in social situations as all the average occupant of the Milky Way knew of the geth were the 'heretics' who had aided Saren. Though having planned to work alone from first hearing of it, the benefits were worth the risk.

"Colonel Ward," the flat tones cut through Gable's thought process and Ward turned to the chair, "We were told that we would continue with our directive when a human partner was found. To keep-" a pause as it searched for the term, "-tabs on us."

"I said that, yes," Ward motioned towards the captain, "And this is he." Gable almost laughed at both parties having been told they would be keeping an eye on one another. He didn't so much as smile however, at what Phalanx said next.

"Captain Gable is not suitable to our needs." And before Gable could make a move in anger, Ward raised a calming hand

"Why not?"

"Erratic, unbalanced and prone to extreme violence." Phalanx could have been reading from the captain's psych report. _Fucking machine. _His fists clenched. "Last mission report shows heavy civilian casualties from precision, sub-orbital strike. Directive requires somebody more suitable."

Gable couldn't hold back, "I only followed orders!"

"We have read your statement on events," Phalanx responded in the same monotone, "Desertion before court martial only served to compound guilt."

"I wasn't going to let them hang me out to dry for their mistakes!" the captain had lost it, all reservations and desire to prove Phalanx wrong, "I've decommissioned more than my fair share of you bolt buckets! What's one more!" His face maddened into queer creases, his hair and beard seeming more white than grey in the harsh lights. He lunged at Phalanx, who could make no move to prevent him. Ward's lips moved but Gable didn't hear a word as he threw the geth sideways and toppled it from the chair. An enormous clang rang through the container like the echo in a bell. The captain reeled over to one wall, next to red bulb his eyes shone like spilt blood.

It was at this that Ward sent Gable away to the colonel's own quarters. He heard Phalanx as he went through the first bulkhead, repeating itself from the floor, "Erratic, unbalanced and prone to extreme violence." Unphased by its collapse, as close as a machine could come to mocking him.

* * *

><p>He was still drunk when Ward found and roused him from a stiff, uncomfortable half-slumber against the bookcases in the colonel's office. He felt himself being tugged by the shoulders, gently at first then with more vigour, before a light slap caught Gable unawares from the right flank. "I'm awake! I'm awake!" the captain's hands rose to rub his eyes in a useless attempt to help accustom them to the suddenly harsh lighting. He then added, having realised what had happened, "Slap me again though and I'll kill you."<p>

"You blew it captain."

_No, not yet._ His outburst had prevented him from explaining properly to Phalanx. How much he wanted to get his hands on Shepard. _To do what exactly? _Whatever a dog does when it catches its tail. Explaining too what happened on that last mission before the desertion, the order to designate the target that had thrown him over the edge. The bottle lay next to him, slipped from his grasp and with just enough for a final swig. Gable struggled to his feet and took the scotch in hand. "I'm- I'm gonna go take another shot at him," he slurred, "I mean at it. Damn bolt of- buckets of- machine."

Ward rose with him and was fatal in his words, "That's not a good idea, you couldn't even manage a civil conversation with it whilst sober. What will change now that you've worked your way through a gift from my children?" _What does that have to do with anything?_

"I can be as honest with it as it was with me."

* * *

><p>"Captain Gable." Phalanx had been returned to its seated position. "Pupil dilation, perspiration and slowed motor responses suggest you are inebriated."<p>

"The bottle in my hand wasn't enough to clue you in?" Gable slumped against the bulkhead closed shut behind him, Ward waited outside, "Mind if I sit?"

"No."

"How much oxygen do I have?"

"Three days at rest. Six hours if activity is strenuous."

"Gives us time to work things out then."

"We will not work with you. Would jeopardize our directive."

Gable sighed which ended up morphing into a vile belch, "You like it in here that much?" Phalanx didn't respond. _How could it? A question about its feelings on a subject. _"What is it like when they throw the kill switch?"

"We cannot liken it to any other experience."

Gable mused, "How do you liken something to nothing?"

"We cannot."

A chuckle, "It was a hypothetical."

"Posing a question that requires no response."

"I'm your ticket out of here," Gable levelled with the machine, "As erratic as I am, without me you will be chopped up and studied by scientists, engineers. No-one will care about the difference between yours and heretic programs for a chance to look under the hood."

"The Alliance needs us to find Shepard." _Just me or does it sound desperate? _

"A bird in the hand..." Gable trailed off.

"You are suggesting that having this platform is more important than potentially finding Shepard."

"I am."

"We hadn't processed this scenario. Consensus is needed."

"My nuts and your bearings are in a fucking-" pounded his chest with a fist, "-heartburn. A fucking vice. Even if we just keep up a pretence and go our separate ways once out of Alliance space." His voice had quietened to a whisper and Phalanx didn't respond. "Well?"

"We are forming consensus."

"Don't take three days over it," he muttered, "I gotta take a piss."

Gable liked to think that the idea of wallowing in his urine quickened Phalanx's swarm process. "We accept."

The captain got almost excitedly to his feet, turned to the bulkhead locked from the outside and allowed himself the smallest of smiles across his bruised face as he slapped his palm against the metal. Ward's podgy features met him on the other side, "Glad you haven't killed it... or yourself."

"Where's the ship you promised?"

**A/N: Now we're going places.**


	8. Chapter 8

"Omega," Gable muttered to himself as a batarian bumped shoulders with him and he strode over to a dive bar with an ugly krogan acting as bouncer.

"You got some real balls coming back here. I still can't close me fingers all the way on me left hand and it's a damn stroke of luck I shoot with the other," the krogan loomed large over Gable and blocked his entrance to the bar, "Not to mention you ain't go your buddies with you this time. How about you crawl back under whatever rock you been hiding under? You ain't welcome here. Scram, human." The last word carried venom, a species definition turned insult. Gable remembered his last visit, when the drink had gotten the better of him and it descended into a brawl outside. The krogan bouncer had tried to break up the fight but broke the fingers in his hand instead. Gable was the man who broke the fingers and was pistol whipped for his part in the debacle.

"Whose name's above the door?" Gable asked, nonplussed by the bouncer's verbal assault.

"I work the door under the name," the krogan was on the defensive now, "Keepin' the rabble ou-"

"Whose name?"

"Craw."

"Are you Craw?"

"No, but-"

"Last I checked this was a bar for Alliance personnel."

"Last _I _checked you ain't Alliance no more," the krogan was a horrid shade of green with one eye missing, "Turned tail and ran off like a pussy at a little collateral damage." _At least he doesn't know I'm supposed to be dead. _Gable hesitated, pushed onto the back foot by mere words and the krogan let loose another barrage, "Can't believe a wimp like you got the drop on me at all. Must've got me head on backwards that day."

"You'd need a neck first," the captain found his tongue and the krogan balked and let off a grunt of satisfaction.

"Missed you Gable," the bouncer punched him in the chest and reminded Gable that he needed to collect his armour, nearly grounding him with the force, "Place is almost boring without you spooks about the joint."

"Craw in?"

The bouncer pointed to the camera above the door, "He told me to give you the bum's welcome you deserve. Can hear him laughing in me ear." The krogan slammed his heavy fist on the door behind and a slat flicked open. Wild, paranoid eyes peered out and the bouncer passed an order, "Let this old, tired piece of shit in. Send him up to Craw."

The eyes disappeared with the piercing sound of metal sliding on metal. They were then given a face that looked upon Gable with deep suspicion. He had skinny limbs and a torso that served little purpose other than keeping the rest held together. The Alliance armour was ill-fitting and the man walked as though too long on one foot would make him take a tumble. "Craw huh? Whaddaya want with Craw? Not just anybody gets to talk to him, just sits up there in his office. I get him things. Coffee and what have you, but he doesn't say much to me apart from ordering things. Doesn't say much at all to me." _Doubt he can manage to get a word in edgeways. _

Gable would have preferred the hostile formalities of the krogan bouncer to this motor-mouthed human. "How old are you kid?" he asked as the doorman was mid-sentence.

"Sometimes he tells me to- me? Twenty two, I know I'm a little small for it but I'm still growing. I think. Smart for twenty two too-" he smirked at the repetition, "-or so I've been told."

"Want to see twenty three?" the skinny doorman made nothing but a confused face with a shrug for an answer, "Then please shut up."

He did, quick as a shot but not without a hurt look on his face and the young marine continued to mutter to himself nonetheless. The bar was old-fashioned, hazy with second hand smoke and seats mostly taken up with a scattering of Alliance soldiers trying to make the most of their shore leave. There was none of the pumping bass that seemed to have become the norm for drinking establishments and instead the quiet murmur of conversation was occasionally broken by raucous laughter. The doorman led him over the floor, moving between different gaudy shades as they passed neon drinks advertisements.

Through a door at the back of the room, down a steep flight of stairs and a quick double-back brought them to Craw's office door, conspicuously marked 'management'. They were under the bar itself now, muffled footsteps came through the low ceiling. "I'll just knock on the door," the marine yammered.

_Thanks for the play-by-play_. It was a meek and unassuming chap on the door that left Gable wondering if Craw had heard anything at all. But there came a grumble from within and the door slipped open of its own accord. "Come in," a gruff bark from a man built almost like a krogan, with as little neck. Both men made a move through the doorway and Gable had to put a hand on the kid's chestplate.

"Not you." The hurt face once more, as though the captain were a disapproving father. He moved inside the office and the youngster disappeared as the door shut behind him.

"Craw."

"Well, well," the square face split into a smile beneath a flattened nose and short crew cut, "I knew the desertion bullshit had to be some kind of deep cover!" Craw was an ex-marine who went mercenary, eventually working up enough muscle to go independent. His Alliance bar was a front for his enterprise and everyone who drank there knew it - sometimes as high ranking as colonel - but it was a secret worth keeping for a safe place to drink and hideaway when not enjoying the many pleasures the station had to offer.

His office was a wall of screens, camera feeds and information. Gable couldn't help but notice how Craw had let himself go, a formidable weapon left out to rust and add notches to his belt.

"It wasn't," Gable was reminded of his drell interrogator's same assumption.

Craw tapped his nose with a thick finger, "Of course, of course. Say no more." _Better just to play along._ "So what brings Sean Gable back to the cesspool of the galaxy that is Omega?"

"I need my gear," he replied and changed down a tone as he added, "But not as much as I need my eyes and ears."

"The first is easy," Craw ran a small personal storage business and asked few questions about what he was storing, "The other? Things have changed round here, your informant isn't what he once was. Guy is strung out something rotten. You'll find him back by the docks, poor bastard." Gable used a salarian by the name of Berlkin as a source of information on Omega, paid for the scraps and rumours with credits and info of his own - drawing the line far before military secrets. Grease to the keep the gears grinding, Gable like to tell himself of the arrangement.

"Can I still trust him?

Craw shrugged, "Who knows anymore? Things have been bad here lately, even by Omega standards. What are you onto Sean? Something big?"

"The biggest."

"Any chance of cutting me off a slice?" ever the shrewd businessman.

"Not this time, you said things had gotten bad?"

"Yeah, some shoot out at the docks," Craw laughed at Gable's shrug, "I know! So what, right? But this was some crazy three-way. Blue Suns, Cerberus and a queer pair of an asari and a drell."

"That all?"

"Got my ear to the ground but nobody seems to know a goddamn thing about it all. They were gone quick as the whole thing started."

"Would Berlkin know?"

"If he wasn't off his face at the time, he might."

Silence, though not awkward. Craw and Gable studied the security feeds for a minute as the captain considered his next move. They saw the rake of a marine return to his jittery post just inside of the main entrance. "Who's the kid?"

Craw let out a hearty guffaw, "That long streak of nothing? I owe an old friend a favour, he says give my son a job and I agree. Regretted it the moment I laid eyes on him but a deal's a deal."

"Do you pay him by the word?" And they both laughed.

"Wanna take him off my hands?" Somebody to talk to Phalanx and keep the machine off Gable's ass?

"Hell no, just curious." Maybe not.

"Just for that," a twinkle in Craw's eye, "I'll give him the key to your box and let him take you down to collect your shit."

"If he doesn't shut up I can't promise he'll come back," Gable groaned and shook hands with the bar's owner, "You're getting fat, did you know that?"

"And rich too," Craw laughed and laughed hard, "Just means I have to fork out for the same past-times that used to simply be offered to me on a silver platter."

"No more, I just ate."

* * *

><p>"I ain't never been down here before. Craw's never given me a key before neither, I think he likes me more. You know? Did he say anything? Like, about me? To you? I never if I'm doing good or not, does he say anything to you?" Enough of a pause to tell Gable that the query was expecting a response.<p>

"No." Below the office level of Craw's establishment was a long, wide room full of deposit boxes. A few hundred, Gable guessed and each the size of a small coffee table. Their footsteps echoed and the kid's nattering could be heard from every direction.

"What's the number?" the kid seemed distraught by the very idea of ruining this great opportunity.

"It's on the key."

He seemingly didn't hear Gable, "Oh it's okay, it's on the key. One, five, eight. This way I think." The captain quietly cursed Craw for dumping the kid on him, a cruel joke for the both of them. "Here we go, now I just have to-"

Gable lost his patience, "Give me the goddamn key."

The young marine turned suddenly serious, "Sorry but Mr. Craw gave me this job and I mean to see it done." _Jesus, at least he's consistent. _"Unless there's things in here you'd rather I didn't see?"

"Armour, a side-arm and credit chits," Gable found himself being honest and not entirely sure why, "Any of that offend you?"

"No, but I'm not completely thick," the kid had some self-awareness at least, "I know the types who come to see Craw. N7s and spooks and fieldmen, some nastier than others. I might talk a lot but I know what not to blab about. Can't live on Omega without picking up a few things." The key was passed across a sensor on the box and Gable hauled it open, screeching on the collapseable sliders. Everything was where it should be and he set about putting his armour on over the army issue shirt and pants.

He hadn't felt safe without it and his fingers ran over every memorable scratch and dent from glanced rifle bullets. He only half-listened to the kid's ramblings, "My father was an Alliance spook for a few years before I was born, but never told me much about it. What about you?" he answered his own question, "Yeah, you must be a spook too. Quiet types always are. You must be good at not being seen, like spying and stuff. I joined the Alliance military and then got stuck with a desk job, my father always said he didn't know how I even managed to pass the PT. But I got into a little trouble and got myself sent here. I won't bore you with the details."

Sean Gable closed his eyes and waited for the details, but the marine had told the truth and didn't impart them as the armour was clicked together - found to be a far more snug fit around the mid-riff than it once was. The words kept coming as Gable checked his side arm and its thermal clip, "People like to ignore me. Craw, my father and now you. Those guys shooting each other at the dock ignored me too, saw the whole thing and know what they were fighting over."

The captain stopped dead at this, "I'm listening."

"Oh, _now _you're listening," the sullen face and darting eyes, "Now that I might be some kind of use to you." _Not interested enough to put up with your whining. _

"You going to tell me or not?" Gable holstered the pistol and retrieved the credit chits from the bottom of the box before closing it back again.

"You have to promise to take me with you," the marine put a hand on Gable's arm and then removed it instantly, realising he made a mistake with physical contact, "I gotta get off this-" a pause as he looked around, "-this fucking station. Or it's going to kill me."

"I promise," Gable said, a little too quickly.

The eyes lit back up and the mouth was back at a mile a minute, "I dunno, it sounds silly but I overheard a couple of the Blue Suns talking and wondering why everyone was caring so much about some rotting corpse they had in storage. Cerberus was after whatever they had, along with the drell and asari."

_Shepard. _"You're sure?" The kid nodded. "Craw didn't say, how long ago was all the ruckus? Did you hear any names?"

"Five weeks ago and no, I didn't hear any names," he closed his eyes as he tried to remember. Back when Gable was putting up with that drell yelp constantly nagging him with an infuriating barrage of questions. This marine was some ten years older but no less annoying and the whiny voice was back on as Gable made a move to leave, "So where are we going next?"

"You're going nowhere," the captain was dead serious in his tone, "I need to go see a Salarian about a corpse."

"But- but- you promised."

"Goddamn it, kid," Gable was brutally honest, "Your dad and Craw don't want you about, why the hell would I? But listen, I'll pay you for the information. Same as I do with all my sources." The marine looked like he was about to break down in tears and snatched the credit chit offered to him for the information and to leave the captain the hell alone. They walked back up the stairs in silence and Gable left the bar without another word to anyone, mind fully on the job at hand.

Armed and armoured, he headed to the docks. Luck was on his side, his first stop and he already potentially on the trail of Shepard's remains.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I wanted to get back onto the ship in this chapter and have Gable read up on the events of the first game and Shepard's choices therein. But I just had too much fun creating these little characters (bouncer, owner and whiny kid) who would only appear in this chapter. Also good to finally tie this into the actual, pre-ME2 canon at last. **


	9. Chapter 9

**"Well, you see, Willard, in this war, things get confused out there. Power, ideals, the old morality, and practical military necessity. But out there with these natives, it must be a temptation to be God. Because there's a conflict in every human heart, between the rational and irration, between good and evil. And good does not always triumph. Sometimes, the dark side overcomes what Lincoln called the better angels of our nature."**

**Gen. Corman_ - Apocalypse Now_**

* * *

><p>Gable had no way off Omega Station. The ship, a similar wreck to that which had 'rescued' him from drell clutches, remained undocked and in a lazy orbit around the excavated asteroid. Phalanx had suggested it best that the captain was dropped off and picked up later, rather than the ship remaining in dock for any and all to nose around. Gable had reluctantly agreed and upon reading the suspicion in his voice Phalanx attempted to put him at some kind of ease, "If we were going to take the ship, we would do so by force."<p>

What else could he say? "Thank you."

"We note the sarcasm."

_What does it do out there? _Listens, Gable supposed, an artificial ear picking out any scrap of information on its directive, on Shepard. And at the same time delving and burrowing into an existing deluge of information for something, anything. Perhaps even looking for something missing, a gap that someone had purposely created to cover their tracks. Looking for the space in the haystack where the needle had been. Cross-referencing and analysis done in less than the blink of an eye, all whilst piloting the ship and engaging Gable in protracted and dull conversation. In whatever it was doing, Phalanx was a marvel, an education into a supposed enemy that filled Gable with a sense of dread. _Suppose they decided to end their apathetic countenance of the human race? _If nothing else, having the geth on board was improving his vocabulary.

After being released, Phalanx had four months of goings on to catch up with. "Should be easy, right?" Wrong. If the machine could have rolled his eyes at him, "We won't waste your time explaining it to you." _My time? _After visiting Craw's, Gable had contact it with the information learned, "This will narrow our search, thank you Captain Gable."

"Can you send me all Normany logs regarding Eden Prime?" Gable asked, retrieving a data pad from a pack on his belt, "Got some time to kill." He had gone to the docks as the ex-marine Craw had instructed him but there was no sign of Berlkin, his salarian contact.

Omega's dockyards were an exercise in turning a blind eye for a slice on a massive scale, where an intact and up-to-date shipping manifest was the most suspicious thing someone could hope to hold in their hand. Pirates would dock and be asked their cargo, "Hell if I know, haven't looked since I hijacked the thing. You want it or not?" 'Mystery boxes' was the jargon of the dockhands, a group of mixed races and allegiances almost as crooked as the wretches they bought from. But chaotic, illegal and immoral as the system was, it worked and held onto a strange form of stability. A leech hanging onto all that was rotten in the galaxy.

Smaller parasites worked within, draining their own funds and information unnoticed. Berlkin hung around the docks because it was the best place for information, Gable knew. Others would sit in bars hoping to hear scraps of stories that Berlkin would get first hand from a ship's captain as he disembarked. No sign of him though and the captain had to instead hide in plain sight as he waited. He turned his attention to the data pad.

Eden Prime. What was there to be said about events that hadn't been reported a dozen times already? Where it began, the rise and rise of Commander Shepard. The sudden appearance of the geth - 'heretics' supposedly - Saren killing a fellow turian spectre in cold blood, the beacon and the vision. Those were the main points that travelled faster than light on the lips of informants. Other aspects were glossed over, less shiny and interesting facets forgotten in the majesty of the event.

Private Jenkins, KIA then left behind by Alenko and Shepard. _Figures. New ship, new crew and no ties. _As expendable to the commander as the marines on Torfan. Gable flicked a finger and brought up Shepard's personal account with Jenkins' demise given quick mention as 'acceptable casualties'. Williams' log gave her first impression of Shepard as 'a cold bastard... mind only on the mission... shame he is such a handsome man." Williams joined the team on Prime, swept along by Shepard to a tragic end on Virmire. Gable remembered the obituary that was written by Shepard himself, the whole thing was 'line of duty' and 'gave her all for the galaxy'.

The only other thing worthy of note for the captain was a discrepancy between Shepard's version of events and those of the other two in regards to the beacon. Shepard claims to have 'saved Williams from the beacon as it lifted her'. Alenko's log suggests that he simply pushed her out of the way to investigate it first. Williams fell somewhere in between the two and the commander's version became the official one. The reason for all this Gable could only guess. Partial recollection of events? Mis-interpretation? Or just personal grievances forcing their way to the surface. _The last days of Rome. Fate of the galaxy hangs in the balance and everybody starts thinking with their dicks._

Captain Anderson's take on what happened was vague and yet contained details he could only have heard from those who went down to the surface, written as though he were there. Probably written with hindsight of events from others and the foresight that it would be read by the council as evidence. It might as well have been written by Shepard himself for all the fine, upstanding things it had to say about the man and his abilities.

And then there were the accusations against Saren though whilst eventually proven to be entirely true were based on what? The testimony of a dock worker who was outed as - Gable cross-checked Williams' log - part of a smuggling ring. But christ, going in front of the Citadel Council with _anecdotal, __second-hand _evidence and proceeding to supposedly get pissed when no action was taken? Shepard must've had his head too far up his ass with his shiny new ship and crew. There was unorthodox and then there was plain stupid, which didn't even taken into account the 'mysterious vision' offered by the beacon. So humoured was the captain by finally getting his hands on the farce that was Eden Prime that he didn't notice Phalanx's flat-lined tones in his ear.

"Captain Gable," a pause as he continued to read, "Captain Gable."

"Go ahead," a finger to the cochleal implant, "What you guys find out?" He was still searching for a term to describe Phalanx that he felt comfortable with or at least the one that confused the machine the most.

"There is no record of a shooting taking place in the time frame you specified or in a wider one," the voice never sounded surprised, as though once processed no event or realisation could ever catch it off guard.

"You sure?"

"We are sure." Gable would also find himself adding his own organic assumptions to the tone and nature of Phalanx's responses. For example, the scornful retort of the recently patronised. Much like a conversation with an elcor - a past time avoided by him whenever possible - except with the added aspect of assumption and never being sure if he was correct.

"Well then, what now?"

"Either those you spoke to lied or-"

"Or somebody is covering their tracks."

"Yes." Unperturbed by the interruption.

"Either way I need to speak-" Gable stopped.

"Captain?"

"Need to speak of the devil." His voiced trailed off. The salarian had appeared, his skin was pale and the bug-eyes were bloodshot. Though he still sauntered into the docking bay with an air of ill-deserved superiority. _Bastard is high as a kite. _Gable watched Berlkin wave lazily to any and all who crossed his path, sharing smalltalk with those whom he recognised. Two krogan nearby shared an unheard joke at the salarian's expense before the obligatory laughs and blackslaps. Berlkin was heading toward the captain, who himself was leaning casually against a nondescript container, but seemed as yet unaware of his presence. Until the bloodshot eyes met Gable's own steel-grey set. He saw the fear, the panic that gripped the skinny, pale-pink frame. He knew what came next but willed against it.

_Oh shit, don't you dare. Don't you do it. Don't- _But the salarian made a mad dash for the nearest exit despite all mental pleas to the opposite. Gable gave chase, feet pounding on the concrete floor and a dozen sets of eyes watched him leave the docks - word of the human running after a salarian drug addict might well move faster through the station than they would. The docks connected to a dense market by means of a long corridor, wide enough for two makos to travel down side-by-side, and Gable could see Berlkin some halfway along causing a commotion amongst those innocently getting in his path. Knowing it would prove useless, Gable didn't bother to shout after him and instead focused on closing the gap.

His own sprint along the brightly lit corridor was made easier by people knowing a chase was happening and those knocked aside by the salarian and his flailing limbs urged the captain on to 'catch the junkie scum'. _Plan ahead, he's gonna try and lose you in the stalls and crowds. End it soon. You're too old and fat to keep this up for long. _All Gable could hear were his boots, heart and breathing. All fighting for the prize of being the loudest and his head did nothing but throb in his temples. Every heavy footfall shook his vision and he lost sight of Berlkin at the corridor's end.

Left or right? Which way did he turn? Gable had no idea but kept up the pace and would cross that bridge when he got there. Some twenty metres for the t-junction he got his answer as the salarian appeared suddenly from the left and changed his mind about the turn, sprinting away to the captain's right. His ear picked out above the throbs and pants, a high-pitched wail, "You're supposed to be dead!" Before turning right, he shot a quick glance to the left to see three Blue Suns - all Batarian and armed. They did nothing but laugh at the situation and their part in it.

Laughed harder still as Gable crashed shoulder-first into an elcor and he went sprawling down to the deck. Pain shot through his right arm from the impact with the creature's solid limb. "You fucking idiot!" he pushed himself back to his feet, far angrier at himself than the elcor.

"Uncontainable rage. Watch where you are going."

One turned right, the corridor opened out in width and height with a line of stalls down either side and whilst not particularly busy, a number of patrons milled about and looked at the wares. The salarian had slowed his pace, choosing to weave through the sparse crowd as opposed to smashing a path. The noise of the voices and species on sale wasn't quite so bad as the wretched stench of the place. In an area where nobody wanted to take responsibility litter and filth lay strewn about. Gable could taste the stale air in his rushed, heavy breathing.

A pain in his side. _Am I really this out of shape? He knows it too, need to end this. _He drew his pistol and didn't follow his target's change of pace but kept at a full sprint, legs screaming at him to stop. "Outta the damn way!" he yelled, voice hoarse and throaty from the unexpected exercise. When this didn't have the desired effect, Gable fired his weapon in the air. Screams rang out from around the stalls and crowd parted to let him through. He had closed the gap and spotted Berlkin try to make a sneaky turn into a private residence, a decrepit, run-down shack of a house

_Too many witnesses now, _Gable reprimanded himself, _Shoulda just let him run. Stupid, pig-headed old man. _Turning into the same doorway, Gable found a tightly-packed and confused family of four sitting down to dinner, or they had been. The father pointed to a back door which led the captain out onto another row of stalls running right to left. Berlkin had gone right and Gable spotted a flash of light pink skin as the salarian disappeared down a flight of steps.

_Mistake. _Gable smiled and holstered his pistol. The steps led down to another row of stalls that came back across in front of the captain, some fifteen feet lower over a short wall. There were four sets of stairs and stalls, staggered as they were on a causeway. Each connected by stairs at alternating ends - designed to force patrons to pass every shop front in their visit. Without a second thought for his knees, Gable sprinted between a turian weapons and armour stall before heaving himself over the low wall. He crumpled with a groan behind a krogan liquor vendor - who kindly helped him back to his feet - and was sure he had broken a rib. Just in time to see Berlkin hurry past, looking over his shoulder but not in Gable's direction. _Get him on the next drop._ _Look before you leap this time._

He dashed over to the next wall and quickly peered over the edge to see a sturdy-looking stall with a corrugated roof. Took a few steps run up and vaulted himself with one foot. He landed on the roof as planned, but it promptly collapsed under his weight and he rolled out in the path of a very startled salarian. Seizing the opportunity, Gable sprung like a viper and caught Berlkin in the thighs, sending them both tumbling in a flurry of legs and arms. Long, thin fingers tugged at his beard and tried to find his eye sockets. Gable for his part started pummelling the addict in the abdomen until he managed to force his target onto his belly. With a little more effort he was able to get hold of both flailing hands.

"Keep- K- Keep still! Or I swear I will start breaking your fingers! I swear it!"

Berlkin stuttered in hushed but feverish tones, "You're dead. You're dead. You're supposed to be dead." A crowd was gathering, the most interesting thing in their otherwise pathetic lives on Omega. A volus demanded compensation for his collapsed roof. The hum of suspicions and the beginnings of the rumour mill were more than the panting Gable could take. He pinned the hands to Berlkin's back with one knee, took out his pistol and addressed the crowd with a sardonic tone, "He owes me money."

This abated most and they went back to their comings and goings. The volus was quieted by a credit chit thrown at his feet and Berlkin got the butt of Gable's pistol to his skull, went limp. Only a lone turian remained to watch, head to toe in regal blue armour. A silent spectator. "Can I help you with something buddy?" the captain gestured with his pistol and the turian rejoined the masses without so much as a word, "Asshole."

Gable's chest burned, just not able to suck down enough of the sickening air into his lungs. The lactic acid in his thighs made them feel as though they were melting from the inside out. He half-fell, half-rolled from the unconscious informant, coughed up something unpleasant and spat it out onto the concrete. "Far... too old for this shit."

"Captain Gable." He pretended to himself that Phalanx had concern in his voice.

"Yea-" a long sucking breath, "Yeah?"

"What has happened?"

"Something erratic."


	10. Chapter 10

**How many people had I already killed? There was those six that I know about for sure. Close enough to blow their last breath in my face. But this time it was an American and an officer. That wasn't supposed to make any difference to me, but it did. Shit … charging a man with murder in this place was like handing out speeding tickets at the Indy 500. I took the mission. What the hell else was I gonna do? But, I really didn't know what I'd do when I found him.**

**Captain Willard - _Apocalypse Now_**

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><p>Gable was drinking at the bar when the man-mountain Craw called to him from the door at the back. "He's awake Sean! You come talk to him before I get anymore pissed and do something you regret."<p>

"How is he?" Gable staggered over, legs still stiff from his short run.

"You have a few hours before he starts begging for another hit."

"Any idea what he's on?"

"Found these in his pockets," Craw produced small, lime green capsules that appeared used and a hypodermic dispenser, "The vorcha sell them. Fuck knows what they are or if it's even the same stuff from one dealer to the next." Halfway down the stairs to the office basement Craw stopped and turned to Gable, "You've been attracting attention, especially with your streetchase. When did you become a beat cop?"

"It was a stupid idea, I know but don't worry your pretty head about it. I'm outta here after this. Just need to find out in which direction I gotta go," the drink was going to his head and Gable's hand reached out for a wall.

Craw whispered the next part, "Word is that Archangel wants to talk to you and I don't need him on my ass, Sean. I mean it. You stay on Omega much longer and I can't promise he won't find you here. You know?"

Gable snorted and scratched at his beard, "Archangel? Who does the guy think he is walking around with a name like that?"

"He's turian and that's all anybody knows. He shows up and starts laying down his own law. He came round here once for information and I managed to get him out again pretty sharpish. One guy just trying to do the right thing and on Omega that makes him nothing but bad news."

"Blue armour?" Gable remembered, "Cock-sure stance?" Craw nodded. "I might have pointed my pistol at him."

"Always making friends."

"Just let me talk to Berlkin alone and I'll turn tail out of this shithole station."

"You have one hour," Craw turned to continue the slow lowering of his heavy frame down the stairs and sounded somewhat exasperated, "I don't want any more part of... whatever this thing you're into is. Oh yeah, here's the key for the cuffs."

The salarian was in a spare storage room, amongst pressurised kegs and cases of gaudily merchandised drinks. He was handcuffed in one corner to a thick metal pipe that ran up from the floor and through the ceiling, with enough of a tether to sit or stand. Gable could only think of his own spell in drell custody or Phalanx locked away at Colonel Ward's behest and pleasure. Freedom stolen in the pursuit of knowledge.

Berlkin had calmed significantly though there was an unmistakable twitch in the spindly fingertips. _Withdrawls so soon? How far gone is he? _The eyes had returned to their ordinary dark green hue and no longer seemed to bulge from the head. The voice too had returned to something more manageable to Gable's ears, the feverish squeal gone with a more calm and measured sound in its place. "You and Craw not gonna play good-cop, bad-cop with me?" he smiled like a man on death row, nothing left to do but laugh.

As the captain moved closer he heard the door lock behind him and noticed the small collection of puncture wounds on the pale-pink neck. It was turning septic, putrid green around the red dots like a tattoo of some morbid piece of fauna. "I do my own dirty work, you know that."

"Ain't that the truth," the bony hands were rearranged in the cuffs to improve circulation, "You look pretty good for a corpse."

"You look worse than a corpse," Gable felt no anger now at having to chase Berlkin down, only pity at the sorry state he had found him in, "What's this shit the vorcha are peddling to you?" He turned the capsules over and over between callused fingertips.

"I don't ask," the big eyes glazed over and looked skyward, "It's the only way I have to get off the station. When I take it I'm - this sounds nuts - I'm off in the stars. Across the galaxy faster than a relay."

"Sounds like the words of an addict to me," the captain turned preacher and was shot back down instantly.

"Still drinking?"

Stalemate on the childish personal attacks and Gable changed the subject, "Why'd you run and force me to break a rib?"

"First off, you broke your own rib," Berlkin's chance to be sarcastic, "I was off my face on a deadly hallucinogenic and a man I think to be dead suddenly appears? You gave me one hell of a trip." The screaming made sense now.

Gable's chest was still numb from the medi-gel he had to apply to the area of his broken rib. Pushing the still healing bone back into place and feeling nothing at all was more off-putting than any amount of pain. He lowered himself slowly and surely, back against the wall near Berlkin, "How do you know of my horrible death in drell custody?"

"Met a few real nasty types down the docks, must've been three months ago now," the salarian tried to remember, "Said they had been approached by some special ops brass."

_Ward, _Gable didn't say the name out loud, careful not to give away any more information than he thought Berlkin already knew.

"So I put out a line for any and all information on this _Ward_ guy," a smile that reminded the captain how long they had worked together, "Sounded like he was setting up something big. And something quiet, judging by the types he was talking to. Military spooks, the lot of them. Guys you wouldn't trust with anything dear to you. Figured I could sell on the word when I got the full picture."

"You're not answering the question," Gable was impatient, the clock ticking.

"Might be I know someone in Kahje, eyes and ears all over the place. One set might have seen you in custody and passed on the word to myself."

"Might be?" Gable chuckled, "Those same eyes didn't see me carried out of there on the wings on angels now did they?" Angels with provisos.

"Admittedly no, eyes can't be everywhere all of the time. I have an associate on Arcturus who passes me along memos and other personal files," Berlkin continued, "After I put the feelers out on Ward I got hold of a departmental file saying that you had died in drell custody before the prisoner transfer was completed. Marked top secret and out of circulation, tucked away real good so I took it as gospel, should've known things never work that way with you field men."

"That it?" the captain wanted to hear more.

Berlkin grinned, lips tight and concealing his teeth, "My memory is a little hazy and I gots me a back that needs scratching."

There was little Gable could do but laugh at this, staring intently at his own boots, "You're hardly in a position to negotiate."

"And you are in a rush," the salarian had a point, "What was it I heard Craw say? One hour? Doors are real thin in this joint." They had danced around each like this a dozen times before, guarding their words and knowledge more than their other, more worldly possessions. Careful with their questions as with the answers, which can give just as much away on occasion. Some meetings would have them being so obtusely vague with each other that they would come away having learnt nothing new whatsoever. But there was no time for that, for the lies with kernels of truth that needed so much effort to carve out the truth from the fiction.

Gable needed to take a chance, put his cards on the table and hope that Berlkin played fair too. He took the key Craw had given him and moved over to unlock the handcuffs, "Look, neither of us have time for this and I admit I would sooner beat you bloody and bruised than leave here empty handed."

Berlkin remained seated, but rubbed soothingly at his wrists with the opposite hand, "So we just lay it out there?"

"We just lay it out there."

"No bullshit?"

"No bullshit," Gable nodded before adding, "We just come right out with it and then get the fuck outta each other's hair."

But years of living off his tongue were hard for Berlkin to forget and old habits die hard, "Who goes first?"

"You ask first," Gable eventually said, "Christ man, where's the trust?" And they both laughed, if nervously.

The salarian seemed to be thinking carefully before he eventually asked sheepishly, "What's the deal, Sean? What the hell is this all about? I have all the players; the Blue Suns, Ward, you, the drell and asari-" his hand went to his mouth but Gable waved him on, suggesting this was nothing new to him, "-Cerberus, but know nothing of the prize. It's all kept off the radar." Gable almost laughed out loud to discover the snivelling weed of a kid working for Craw knew more than the 'professional' informant.

"Shepard." One word and a wave of realisation swept across Berlkin's pale face.

He blinked repeatedly, dumbfounded, "And the body? That means, it was here? The shoot out?"

"That's the word," Gable absent-mindedly clenched his hand open and closed, "Deal's a deal."

"Shoot."

"Who are the drell and asari?"

"It makes so much sense now," Berlkin stammered, like his brain was too busy processing the new information, "Dr Liara Tsoni and Feron, I only have the first name on him." _The asari doctor, whose mother was at Saren's side, here to get her own hands on the remains? Or just to get some form of closure on the whole thing? Or here to meet up with a very much alive Commander Shepard? The fuck went on in the hangar bay? _A potent and adept biotic, not to mention the apple of Shepard's eye if the rumours were to be believed.

"Who hired the Blue Suns?"

"I'm surprised you don't already know."

"We have found nothing at all on any shooting or the rest." _We? Shit! You clown, giving away the whole fucking circus! _But Berlkin didn't say anything about Gable's misstep and answered the question instead.

"The Shadow Broker," a name that came out as a whisper, "Who else could take away any record of the contract? I've got it on good word that he's behind it." The discussion continued, but the big hands had been dealt. Cerberus' involvement was puzzling, only because of how brazen the firefight had been - if it's reasons had managed to remain (almost) secret. Why would they want Shepard? Speculation was less than useless but they two engaged in it nevertheless.

"So he's dead? For sure?"

"Fucked if I know," Gable answered, "All this trouble for a corpse though?"

"Stasis? Lot of weird tech flying about the galaxy these days."

"Faked death?"

"Plastic surgery?"

"Who is this _we_?" Berlkin tried to force a quick response with a sneaked in query. _Little shit was biding his time._

"Hmm?" Gable played dumb.

"You said 'we' earlier and I know Ward won't leave the confines of Arcturus without the use of an industrial crane," the salarian continued to probe, throwing caution to the wind, "Who are you working with?"

"Classified." _Stonewall the wretch, don't give an inch._

"Oh come on, you sai-"

"Classified," Gable repeated in a manner that suggested a third response would not be verbal.

Berlkin was less than pleased at this and whilst remaining as hostile in the questioning, did change subject, "I have to wonder though. If Shepard is in fact alive, why does the Alliance want him dead?"

"Now you're holding out on me too?"

"No," Berlkin turned sly, "Your involvement alone tells me that they want to find a corpse, one way or another. I mean, he sacrificed an Alliance fleet to save the Council. You think that would be forgotten?"

"Ward said nothing about that to me," Gable snapped back, impermanent.

"Did you even ask or were too busy planning your revenge against an old commanding officer?" A small rage began to rise in Captain Gable. At himself for his own gullibility, at Ward for taking advantage of a washed-up deserter and at Berlkin for pointing out the whole sorry mess. "You're hardly a diplomat, Sean. You think you were gonna talk him back into the fray and make your own mark in the saving of the galaxy?"

"Just stop."

But Berlkin was on a roll and even the threat of major physical trauma didn't stop him from laying it all out, hands waiving with every word, "You're a killer, plain and simple. Sure, you never told me this yourself. But those names you had me track down? They were never heard from again and I soon figured out what sort of spook you were." Gable looked at his chapped, calloused hands. The hands that had pulled triggers, designated 'legitimate' targets and forced steel into flesh. _What sort of soldier am I?_

"Oh yeah?" Gable wore a mask of contempt, "You never had a problem with it when you were paid for your part."

"I still don't have a problem with it," the salarian laughed, "But you need to be honest with what you're involved in and why. You're a killer and you love it."

"I just follow orders," but this time he just couldn't believe the lie coming out of his own mouth.

"You get away with crimes others get thrown in Purgatory for life for committing!" Berlkin threw up his arms in excitement, "All because you do it for men who claim it is for the greater good! And you don't even give a shit if that's the case." Gable remembered the drell boy, lying dead in the dust of the construction site and the beatings he received from drell security. Just a sample, a tiny crash-course in the level of punishment he could (should?) have been getting for this awful things he had done in his life. Even then, the Alliance had made it all go away and said no more about it. But then... _he _was no better.

"Shepard is no better than me," Gable clenched his fingers into fists and imagined the skin on the commander's neck turn pale with the pressure, "He's a killer all the same." _Everybody admires him but they don't know the truth and scale of the death he brought, handed out with reckless abandon across the same galaxy he was trying to save._

"Not the same, not the same as you hired killers," the captain's eye stared straight into the salarian as he said this, the term had hit a nerve, "Shepard made those calls and lived with the consequences. You just have to wash your hands afterward and hope it sill comes off this time. It's the difference between leaders and-" scared by Gable's glare, changed his word choice, "-the rest."

"And what do I kill for?" Gable muttered, "Since you are oh so wise." _Money? For the Alliance? Because I like it, because I'm good at it._

"I can't answer that," Berlkin replied and looked to the ceiling, "I know what I do gets people killed but I have that wonderful level of disconnect that makes denial so much easier. The only question that matters now is are you going to go through with it?"

"If he's alive," Gable spoke eventually and left a long pause before adding, "I'm going to kill him." _Fuck it. Fuck this salarian worm, the Alliance and the fate of the galaxy. Fuck the Reapers, the Blue Suns and everyone else who cares so much about a corpse. Fuck Ward and his multiple chins and ugly children. Fuck Commander Shepard and the never-ending wake he left across the lake of everyone's lives. But more than anything else, fuck you Captain Sean Gable. For knowing nothing but death and how to deal it._


	11. Chapter 11

**Being playmate of the year is the loneliest experience I can imagine. It's like you try to express your feelings to someone and show them your heart and there's this glass wall between you, this invisible glass. They can see your mouth moving but they can't hear what you're saying. You can never really make them hear what you're trying to say. That's why I tried so desperately to show somebody that I had some talent. They make you do things you don't wanna do like, this picture here. I started feeling repulsed with myself. Maybe I'm unfit to have a relationship with a beautiful, innocent boy. I wish I wish I could find just one person that could share my point of view.**

**Lucy, Playmate of the Year -_ Apocalypse Now_**

* * *

><p>Gable was followed out and away from Craw's, through the maze of corridors, side streets and staircases that led to the docks for his scheduled pick-up by Phalanx and the ship. By whom, he couldn't tell but in the short moments he turned his head he noticed a similar, hazy finger in his peripheral vision more than once. Not to mention there was the unmistakable feeling in his gut that comes from years of working on your wits and he set about trying to shake them. "Phalanx."<p>

The monotone came back over their comms channel, "Captain Gable."

"I've picked up a tail. Hold off on docking until I say so, understand?"

"Yes."

The worst thing Gable could have done was stop dead and turn around, give the whole game away. _Play dumb, see if you can't double back and get look at them without their knowing. _Hiding in plain sight is a strange thing and had he wanted to the captain would need only turn around and place who was trying too hard to look natural. Unless of course they were good, a hired legman paid to keep an eye on him.

As it happened Gable did come to a sudden stop - sweat tricking from his forehead around his eyebrows and down into his beard - not for the sake of whoever followed him, but instead to try and figure out where he was. Having made so many quick turns down Omega's turgid sidestreets and alleyways had completely turned him around. A quick glance at his datapad to check the time, which _was_ for the sake of his tail, a believable reason for stopping. Knowing where he was, Gable formulated a quick plan and made for a murky, red-lit artificial cove penned in one side by a two-storey apartment block. Tucked away from bright lights and more social pairs of eyes.

The area put him in good company, with half of those on the nearly deserted street as paranoid as him - all sweaty palms and nervous tics - and the other half put themselves on display, with lethargic faces that had long forgotten any sense of shame. Asari make the best whores they say and Gable made a mental note to ask Shepard if that was the case. Better able to read people, cater to any species and any carnal whim of the client. The less desperate became dancers in Aria's many clubs and bars, getting chits slipped into their waistbands. Others weren't so lucky and ended up there, in Omega's own red-light district, pulling tricks for whatever lecherous fiends happened to be heavy in the pockets and groin, but light on heart.

That's not say there were only asari there, trying their best to stand provocatively, and Omega catered for all tastes and persuasions. Once pretty human women, their youthful looks as forgotten as true love. Girlish-faced young men with whom Gable refused to make eye contact. Most other species were present and accounted for, even a shapely quarian girl. Although what she was able to offer a client without taking off her suit was beyond Gable's understanding. They all loitered outside the long apartment building, probably once owned by actual families who didn't use its facilities by the hour.

As despicable as the place was to him, it provided the perfect cover. An ex-marine having just visited a bar, finds he has enough time to kill to pick up a whore for an hour or two. Gable stopped away from the staggered line of made-up dolls and tried to fit in, tried not to imagine the sorry story behind every pair of joyless eyes. Eyes that saw him as little more than a chit on legs. Tried harder yet not to lash out as those who funded the misery, the (mostly male) audience of which he would briefly make himself a part. So lost in though and effort that he almost didn't notice the volus next to him.

"Alliance earth-clan? Shore leave? Looking to make the most of it? What you into? Ha ha! We don't judge here, we're all in the same boat!" _Just draw your pistol and shoot him, it would be easy_. "Nothing is too depraved earth-clan! Believe you me when I say that!"

"And what exactly could a volus do with any of those girls," Gable restrained himself, "The moment you unzip those pants, your dick explodes."

The diminutive pervert turned slightly hostile, "Your ignorance of our anatomy aside, earth-clan, you're correct. But I like to buy two and you know, _watch._" Gable wondered how easy it would be to push his thumbs through the lenses on the volus' helmet. Shaking his head, he left the little bastard to rub his hands and lick his lips behind the respirator. He walked anxiously over to a brunette haired, human female, dressed in little more than a mini-skirt and crop top. Couldn't be older than thirty even if her eyes said different. The bluest eyes he had ever seen, too blue. _Fakes, long time ago now. Fading fast._

Gable had never felt as repulsive as he did reflected in those eyes, in that face, fear in her flushed cheeks and a quiver in the corner of her thin lips. She remained however, no matter how scared, the consummate professional, "Upstairs or down?"

"What's the difference?"

"Rooms are nicer upstairs. This your first time? Paying for it, I mean."

"Yes." _No._

"Well, let me just lay out the menu fo-"

"Can we just go up?" _Better view of the street from the upper floor._

"S-sure," more fear in the eyes. _Do I really appear such a brute?_

If upstairs was supposed to be nice, Gable didn't want to venture back down. The only redeeming quality of the room was the perpetual darkness, ended briefly by the girl as she flicked the lights on and then off again at Gable's request - not before making a pout to suggest he had taken a chunk out of her self-esteem. Even in the dusty murk, cut down the middle by the red light that filtered in from the double screen door, the place was obviously a dump and only the bed was tidy. Gable wondered how much sweat and shame was soaked deep into the mattress.

He ignored the girl and strode over to the screen door that led out onto a small balcony overlooking the street of debauchery. The relative red neon brightness meant he could look out but none could see in for the reflections of outside and there was a good view in both directions. When he turned back, the girl was doing what she considered her duty and undressing in a manner that Gable supposed was meant to pass for erotic. "Stop. Put your clothes back on."

Life sprung to her face for the first time in the form of surprise, "What?"

"Put them back on." The boyish, skinny frame was hidden once more.

"Then I'll go back down," she turned impertinent, "I'm wasting time up here if you're not interested." _Were I younger_.

"I'm still paying you for the time, so quit your bitching," he didn't have time for amateur dramatics, "Get over here and tell me if there's anybody out of the ordinary in the street."

"That's it?" she looked bemused.

"That's it," he shrugged before adding a joke in poor taste, "Unless you'd rather have sex with me?" He slapped the strained mid-riff of his armour and let out a laugh at the disgusted look on her face. "No? Then get over here."

She did as told and peered out, nose almost to the glass as she moved from one end to the other, scouting out both ends. She shuddered slightly and muttered, "Ugh, that volus is out there. Makes the rest of them look like a bunch of prudes." For once Gable was appreciative of the fact that he was only figuratively fucked by the assholes in his line of work. He wondered too how long this girl had been pulling tricks on Omega to seem so resigned to her fate.

"Yeah, he spoke briefly with me." _Felt like I needed a shower afterwards. _He kept that to himself, anymore off-colour jokes and she might bolt on him.

The girl's hands suddenly went to the glass in excitement, as though were getting ready to climb the screen door itself and her voice let off a small squeak at the mention of the name, "Oh! It's Archangel!" She suddenly seemed half her age, pouring out the words like talking about a schoolyard crush.

"He helped me out once. I was in a real bind with this one client. Started off nice, human guy who used me to get away from his wife. Wouldn't even fuck me-" somehow the word sounded so much more vulgar from a whore's lips, "-not at first. But the wife left him and he blamed me. Starts hitting me but, but he still paid."

"So Archangel helps you out?"

"Yeah, long story short."

"I prefer them that way," Gable muttered before he asked, "What's he doing?"

"At the entrance to the street, just standing," she giggled a little, "He's making the rest of you real jumpy." He ignored her lumping him in with the rest of those horrible creatures outside. _Waiting for me to come back out. Doesn't know I've got him fingered though. How do I get rid of him?_

"Do you smoke?" that annoying, bemused face once more, "These aren't difficult questions. Afterwards? Do you?"

"Uh, yes."

"Give it a few more minutes and then go for it, give your guardian angel a wave whilst you're at it." An ex-marine pops in for a quick go with a human whore and she has to get away for a cigarette after oh, seven or eight minutes? She spots the wonderful Archangel and gives him a wave, before telling said marine all how amazing the turian is and the difference he has made to Omega. And Archangel should casually stroll off, having been pointed out to his would-be prey. Or at least, that was the plan.

The two waited in the disgusting, squalid room for a few minutes in silence before Gable told her to enjoy a cigarette. The girl played her part and came back in straight after looking a little hurt, "He looked right at me then left. Ignored me. Not even a nod." _Perfect, he'll worry too much about me following him now _- but she interrupted his thoughts, "He wanted to stop this, said he'd talk to Aria for me but I told him not to." She looked sheepishly at her soft shoes.

"Some things even he can't change," Gable said to himself but she nodded like an eager child all the same, "Is there a back way out of this dump?" Her face went stern which made him wonder if he hadn't over-stepped the line in insulting her place of work, but she answered.

"Yeah, take a left in the corridor and down the stairs at the end," she spoke in a hushed voice as though the world shouldn't hear a word, "There's a door down there, opens into an alley, from the inside only."

A pause though Gable could see there was more, "But?"

"But it's dangerous."

He could only snort with derisive laughter. _Where on Omega isn't? _And he made his way to the door, tossing some credits her way which she fumbled to catch against her somewhat flat chest. As he passed her she grabbed his arm and, barely feeling her grasp, nearly pulled her to the floor. "Wait! I mean it! There's real bastards down there. Aria stops them from bothering us but if we stray... if we... a beating is the best we can hope for.

Gable rolled his eyes and continued his way out, "I can handle myself. Now go get yourself another iris augment, that one is fading." _I doubt whoever's down there would consider fucking me any kind of pleasure_. Being around the 'industry' took the captain's mind down less than savoury strolls. When he left the girl she was leaning over a filthy sink and stared intently into her own eye, lids peeled back top and bottom like she was about to squeeze a spot. How many men paid for those beautiful fake-blue eyes to stare right through them as they did their credits' worth?

The volus from down on the street accosted Gable in the strip-lit corridor, "Hello again, earth-clan! Enjoyed yourself I hope. I have two girls waiting for me." The huffs and wheezes were more frequent than before. "I plan to have myself quite the time with them, I work hard and have earned a little fun. Please, ignore the screams of delight." If he hadn't shoved passed the salivating patron when he did - "How rude! Earth-clan have no manners!" - heading left toward the stairwell, he would have killed the lecher. Broken a limb and made a small puncture in the pressurised suit, let him slowly die with no way to crawl to safety. And yet... _The whores would probably rescue him, too lucrative a client not to. _

Some vicious cycles aren't meant to be stopped, Archangel was finding that out the hard way it seemed. One step forward and two steps back. If you want to change things - really, really change things - you have to do something big, something bold. _Really piss people off. Being loved isn't enough, you need to be hated too. Divide them and see how much change people want. _Gable's mind was on Archangel and turian's approach to Omega as he reached the one way door that - _Huh, never did find out the whore's name _- she had spoke of.

The air inside was dense and carried the smell of things Gable didn't want to dwell on, outside wasn't much better. As the door locked shut behind him, the captain felt a noticeable chill. The alleyway was close, cramped buildings that seemed to lean out over him and threatened to cut out the artificial lights high above. There was the sound of something dripping, steady and fast but he couldn't see what or where. To his left, the way was blocked with all manner of refuse gathered and Gable wondered how far it would have to spread before it was taken care of. So headed right, whether or not he had shaken Archangel he couldn't tell but he would definitely be delayed in his pursuit.

_If he goes to her though, that whore will sing. _No more time to waste, he had to head back to the ship. Talk to Phalanx, pick at Ward for information like a scab you just can't leave alone. The noise of the adjoining street came to his ears, all distorted echoes. Until three voices cut through the rest from around the corner.

"You're drunk."

"I am not!"

"Tell him, tell him he's drunk."

"You're drunk, he's right."

"Well, we _are_ celebrating!"

Three batarians came round the corner into the alley. One certainly was drunk and though he wouldn't admit to it verbally, his arms certainly confessed when they reached out to grab at a friend for stability. They were unarmed, but heavy-set and in light armour. Gable veered to the opposite wall and walked slowly. No more time to waste.

"Hey, maybe we can find a nice asari girl enjoying a cigarette and-" the drunk batarian suddenly doubled over and blew chunks onto the ground, his friends gave each other knowing looks. One glanced at Gable and ignored him. _Thank fuck. _The drunk straightened himself up and wiped his mouth before haphazardly motioning a puke-lined hand at Gable, "Hey! Hey! You Alliance?"

As battered and scuffed as his armour was, Gable could only wish it had been more so, the System Alliance insignia suddenly more trouble than it was worth. One of the friends took the drunk by the shoulder. "Leave the human be," and to Gable himself, "He's had a few too many. Ignore him."

"No harm done." Though he tensed inside. _Batarians, scum the lot of them. No time for this._

"Fu- fucking humans," the drunk continued, to no-one in particular, "My brother killed dozens, dozens! Back on Torfan, died a hero." His slur was punctuated by a belch. "Hey you! You on Torfan? Guess not or my brother would have killed you!" He laughed loud and hard.

_No time. No time. _He was passed them now, all he had to do was ignore the jibes and reach the street. Age though brings with it a certain stubbornness, a desire to prove others wrong and put them in their 'rightful' place. Which is why against better judgement and all natural survival instincts Gable turned and said, "I was on Torfan. Where was your brother stationed? I might have split his four-eyed skull myself."


	12. Chapter 12

**"Well I've been down so goddamn long, that it looks like up to me."**

**The Doors - Been Down So Long**

* * *

><p>Of the four, only two were up for a fight in the alleyway and one of them was too drunk for rational thought. The slurring batarian was held pinned to a wall by a friend's hand on his chest. The only thing holding Gable back was being outnumbered. The other two were attempting to defuse the situation. "Let me at him! The bastard killed my brother!" the drunk snarled.<p>

"That's not what the human said," the hand pushed him more firmly against the rough concrete, "But of course he really shouldn't have said anything."

"Go," the other said to Gable, "Just get outta here." But wariness made the captain stay put. A trap or trick to get him to turn his back? Batarians are sneaky bastards after all, the lot of them. Why let this chance to get back at a member of the Alliance slip through their fingers?

"What's wrong with you old man? Go!" The four eyes blinked in disbelief. "You'd actually rather fight us?"

"The Blitz is long over," Gable lost track of which one was speaking, they all looked the same to him, "And you're putting a real downer on our night out. More than this swine." A quick kick to the drunk's shin.

"PTSD, really fucks them up," another mutter from the two designated drivers, "He's not gonna budge, let's go."

The drunk slurred as Gables hand hovered cautiously over his side-arm, "Shoot me then! Give me an excuse to kick- to kick your ass!"

The three could be heard laughing once they were out of the alleyway, back onto the street. Gable's heart throbbed in his ears and his head felt light, forcing him to reach for the wall. He tried to catch his steaming breath as he stared toward the perspiring ground. _Cowards._ But the word felt strange and forced, caught in his throat. A finger went trembling to his ear, "Phalanx, I shook the tail. Get your metallic hind in here."

"Yes," there was a pause, "Captain Gable, your respiration rate suggests you have once again acted erratically."

"Almost. Just - just get in here."

"Yes."

The docks were quiet, a silence that screamed in the ears worse than any level of noise. He should have noticed it and taken note also of the suggested danger, but Gable was too set on getting his sorry ass off the station and figuring out his next move. The ship was docked, the ugly heap of junk worth an immeasurable amount for its pilot alone. Though the outer bulkhead remained sealed, the engine hummed in a low ebb, ready to go at a moment's notice. Why Phalanx hadn't just abandoned him, Gable couldn't understand but was thankful nonetheless. The ship was parked in a dark corner of the hangar, just another pirate vessel. And yet.

It wasn't until he reached the crates near his ship that Gable something was up; too quiet. The usual symphony of off-colour jokes and multi-lingual cursing wasn't to be heard and he stopped dead. _Ambush. _A voice behind him, "Turn around slowly." No nonsense tone though tired, not physical tiredness but a weariness with the world. A cop's tone.

"Did I manage to shake you at all?" Gable asked before turning, slowly. That regal blue armour, so sanctimonious and sure of himself. The ego boost he must get from being able to hush the entire Omega dockyard with his mere presence.

"At the Red Lights," he replied before his voice turned to a bark, "Keep your hand away from the pistol!" Archangel had his own sidearm trained between Gable's crow-footed eyes. The dock's spotlights bent and warped over the turian's helmet as they talked, edges picked out and gleaming.

Gable put his hands to his head and interlocked the fingers amongst his thinning, grey hair, "What can I do for you?"

"I like to welcome new scum personally," Archangel's voice had a slight echo from the helmet, "Let you know who's in charge."

"Aria been informed of your takeover?"

"She'll get her's soon enough," the head cocked slightly, "What did you want with the salarian?"

"You could've asked me at the time," Gable remembered him in the crowd, "Didn't see you jump in to the rescue."

"I play a longer game than that," was the arrogant reply, "An N7 like yourself should be able to appreciate."

"I'm flattered you've taken a personal interest in me," the captain wondered if Craw or Berlkin had ratted him out.

"Only until you're off _my _station," the emphasis was there, perhaps an attempt at a joke.

"I'm just leaving this shithole," Gable took one hand from his head to point back at the ship with a thumb, "With your permission, naturally."

"Honestly, I don't care why you're here or what you're after," Archangel lowered his pistol and used it to shoo Gable toward the piece of junk, patronising the old man, "Just remember if you ever come back I'll be waiting. Enough wild cards already here to make a full deck." The turian seemed ill at east with the human expression as though it were stolen and using it was a crime.

"By your leave, turian," Gable turned and kept his hands on his head until he reached the bulkhead, "It's me." The hatch unlocked, opened and he turned for one last glance to find Archangel had vanished. The noise of the docks had returned and he escaped the wretched place for the safety of the busted-up ship, the company of a machine.

"It's a little early for an update," the fat hologram of Colonel Ward was jerky and prone to disappearing entirely for a moment before retuning again, such was the equipment they had to hand. The ship had left orbit of Omega and was drifting lazily near the relay. Phalanx stood impassively as the two men spoke, processing the scene no doubt and constantly weighing up the idea of going solo, Gable presumed. If so the consensus so far remained in his favour.

"Cut the shit, why do you want Shepard dead?" Gable paraphrased Berlkin's earlier question of him and paced the deck of the med-bay (the only part of the ship with any real space to move) like a man possessed, "I didn't sign myself up for a hit."

Ward openly laughed at this, "Of course you did. Why do you think I got _you_ involved at all? One look at your mission history was enough to tell you were perfect. All you know are S&Ds, I didn't think I had to spell it out for you that you were to terminate the commander if you found him alive."

Gable fumed, "So spell it out! Fuck sake."

"It is the opinion of a select few that Shepard has gone rogue. Select few in the higher Systems Alliance echelons to be specific. That he is no longer acting in the-" a pause for thought, "-best interests of the Alliance. When no body was recovered it was assumed by some that the death was faked so that he could continue working off the radar."

"For whom?"

"Judging by what you have found on Omega, either the Blue Suns or Cerberus." Gable hadn't mentioned a word of either and shot a glance at Phalanx. _Is he broadcasting direct while the transmission is open. _Shepard saves the galaxy and then is hunted down for it because he didn't save the galaxy in such a way that left generals happy with the result. "What else were you able to ga-"

"Phalanx, shut him up," Gable pinched the bridge of his nose and the hologram disappeared. He leaned heavily against the sturdy, if crude cot and slammed one fist against stormed over to the geth and stabbed an accusatory finger inches from its 'eye', "How often do you broadcast back to that fat shit? Once a day! Constantly! Christ!"

"We are only uploading when communications with Colonel Ward are open," Phalanx 'ignored' Gable's threatening behaviour and answered as it would any other question, "We have no choice. Changes were made to our circuitry."

"Don't accept any communications from him, not for a while. We'll make up some bullshit about jamming in the Terminus Systems, magnetic moons! All sorts of things ruin comms out here."

The body remained still but the metallic head followed the captain, "Why?"

"Because I don't want him eavesdropping on everything through you."

"We are working on a solution. For the connection and for the... kill switch," Phalanx's response contained a definite pause which further confused Gable, was there a tiny piece of fear in there? Fear at the memory of death?

"You planning on abandoning me when you get free of him, in my moment of need? We were becoming such close friends as well."

"You are assisting us in our directive," it was the stillness that was most off-putting to the captain, especially when the machine spoke, "We came to the consensus that Colonel Ward would recapture us once the directive was complete."

"A roundabout way of thanking me but I'll take it," it would have been a joke had Gable not been dead on his feet from his time on Omega, "Right, I need some shut eye."

"We should decide our next step."

"Where was the body going?" he wondered aloud. If the remains were even still in the same hands as when they arrived on the station. Blue Suns, Cerberus and Shepard's own asari concubine, the three-pronged fork in their path.

"Omega's network contained no information of use on the vessel," Phalanx should have sounded disappointed, "What we did decipher was most likely forged."

"Wild goose chase," Gable chuckled, forgetting that the geth was not one for banter. That was one aspect of being on Omega that he did allow himself to enjoy, interaction with the organic and unpredictable. Conversation with Phalanx was strained and awkward. All purpose and duty. Any entertainment Gable took from it was at Phalanx's seemingly unwitting expense, many jokes were ruined in those first few days through protracted explanation.

"What we have to ask ourselves," Gabled mused and slipped his weight onto the cot by his elbows, "Is who is the most likely to have left a paper trail."

"We would suggest the Blue Suns," Phalanx answered the moment Gable finished, even the machine's courtesy was efficient, "Although we assume the Shadow Broker has removed all public record of the dealings."

"So we go after private records," Gable let out a long yawn which carried a low groan, "Nearest Blue Suns' base of any decent size?"

"We will search and wake you upon a arrival," like a sympathetic mother.

"That's very sweet of you," a private joke from the captain as he rubbed vigorously on his grey-whiskered cheeks.

"It is simply the best course of action for our directive."

Gable fell asleep on a cramped, hard bunk away from the noise of engineering with his pistol near to hand. Trust was such a hard thing to find. His final thoughts were spent wondering if Phalanx made its own private jokes at his expense. And the realisation that the machine had not said a single word at the mention of Gable's true mission, to kill Shepard. _Biding its time. _If it came down to the choice between Gable and Shepard, the captain knew whom Phalanx would choose.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Well the festive period is over and it is a little disappointing that this is all I have to show for it; one chapter and shorter than usual. But it works as a bookend to events on Omega, wrapping it up nicely and setting up for the next section of the story. I wanted to write the next chapter as well over the past week but I spent Christmas and New Year either at work, lonely or drunk - occasionally mixtures of two of the three. **

**As ever, thanks for sticking with me on this.**


	13. Chapter 13

"Unidentified craft, this is Observation Base Hotel Kilo. You are to land at our specified co-ordinates for a routine inspection," a nasal voice interrupted Gable's quiet contemplation as he watched the changing hues of the atmosphere from the helm.

He flicked a switch on the console and leaned in to reply, "Hotel Kilo, received and understood. What if I decline?"

The tone stayed professional, "Then you will be in direct violation of Systems Alliance resolution twenty-three nineteen and we will have to consider your vessel and its entrance of our air-space a hostile act."

"That doesn't sound good at all."

"Now, just who am I speaking with?"

"Captain Sean Gable, look me up. I'll wait." A gamble to say the least.

"Just a moment," silence as he waited to see if it would pay off, "Sir?" It was a question, as though the ground-control officer didn't quite know what to call him. "Says here that you deserted. Care to explain that?"

"That's classified."

"Either way, sir," a sniff and a cough, "You're gonna have to come down and talk to the skipper about this. It all just went above my pay grade." _Bingo. _Couldn't help but wonder how far someone could get into an Alliance base just by saying 'classified' to every question posed.

"Been a pleasure talkin' with you."

"You too, sir," the voice went suddenly cheerful like it was the first compliment in his life, "I think."

"Now," Gable said after making double sure the comms channel was disconnected, "Where the hell do I hide my pilot?" And grinned at Phalanx, diligently piloting the ship down to the surface.

The machine had acted as crude alarm clock for Gable, broadcasting a shrill screech through ship-wide speakers. Forced the the captain to awaken with a start, his hand instinctively grasping for his side-arm with no immediate danger to shoot at. They all remained in the world of his sleep, impervious to bullets. All he could do was swear at Phalanx, things he hadn't heard himself say for years and at a target that couldn't appreciate the gravity of his barrage. The only response was, "We have arrived." Gable staggered over to a bowl resembling a sink and coughed up something heinous down the plug-hole, the morning ritual.

The planet was as yet officially unnamed, retaining its original designation of letters and numbers that Gable forgot the moment he read it. A copper-red rock of little mineral worth, it was abandoned but for a Blue Suns presence and as it turned out, an Alliance outpost for keeping an eye on mercenary goings on. No doubt both had caught sight of them on their orbital scans, but the Alliance placed the call first.

A squad was there to meet the ship on the ground, the landing pad was half-covered in dust that was lifted and strewn by the vessel's manoeuvring thrusters. Gable could see the men on the ground were in their helmets, even though the air readout suggested it was breathable but he followed their lead and dropped uncomfortably from the hatch - his knees ached from the fall. The moment his feet crackled atop the red sand the hatch closed and locked tight behind him. The nearest man made a confused face at this and tapped at the area of his helmet protecting his ear, suggesting Gable switch to a local comms network.

"Way ahead of you," Gable said.

"I'm Captain Brethson, CO here at Hotel Kilo," he saluted but Gable didn't offer one in response and he had to awkwardly lower his hand, "Gonna have to ask what you're doing here, _captain_."

"Sorry, but that's-"

"Classified, yeah," the pleasantries were already out of the way, "That got you down here. Hell, I'm a curious guy. But it ain't enough to give you a free pass."

Gable turned just as cold in his rebuttal, "I don't owe you an explanation and I won't let you get in the way of an N7 operation." That was it, the ace up his sleeve. A lot of marines spoke of the special forces in hushed, reverent whispers and many were living out their tours in the hope of being plucked for the next academy intake. More so now that N7 name had its own high profile (supposed) martyr in the form of Shepard.

Brethson was _not_ one of those marines and Gable's title-drop only made matters worse, "We're a long way from Arcturus, captain. We'd have a long time to get our story straight." His was the only face Gable could make out, young but with stern features. The other marines were obscured by reflections on their visors and stood eerily still like sentinels over the heated discussion.

Gable tensed, "Was that a threat?"

"Yes," Brethson seemed to know that Gable had nothing else, "So, we're going to search your ship, as we are instructed to do with all unscheduled vessels. Anything you want to tell us before we go aboard?"

"Better if I show you myself," Gable sighed, "Seeing as the captain is playing hardball in front of his boys." _Christ man, learn to keep your mouth shut._

"Well, fuck me," Brethson muttered before taking off his helmet after walking through the doorway, "Fuck me sideways if that ain't an honest to shit, intact geth." Phalanx was laid out as Gable had instructed, in the med-bay and tied down to one of the chrome slabs, seemingly deactivated.

"Yeah," Gable played his own role in the charade, "But of course you didn't see this because you didn't force your way onto my ship, thereby endangering my mission. The less eyes see this thing the better. Can I trust these grunts?" The squad was now a collection of unwashed faces all crammed into the med-bay's entrance, trying to catch a glance at the curiosity.

"Dude, you ever seen one that wasn't all busted up?"

"Not that wasn't shooting at me."

"You reckon he took it down himself?"

"Nah man, thing woulda fucked him up, N7 or not. Bastard found it somewhere."

"How much do you think its worth?" To think Phalanx was listening to every word.

"You can trust them with your life, captain," Brethson didn't take his eyes off the grey, synthetic, would-be corpse. _But what about my secrets._

"Does this mean I can stay with you guys for a time?"

But the CO remained somewhat nervous, "All I know is, I want that thing off my base ASAP. Though I don't want Arcturus Station on my case asking why I didn't help you out neither."

"That works." _Give 'em any secret and they'll take it as the truth, just gotta pretend you're letting them in. _ All the same, Gable triple-checked the hatch before he left the ship and followed Brethson with his trustworthy grunts inside Hotel Kilo.

The base itself seemed more a collection of long, windowed shipping containers than a permanent structure; as though a space station had landed intact on the planet and the Alliance had just made the most of it. There was one covered with antennae and swivelling dish that probably acted as radar. Steam, bright white against the copper hue of the world, rose from humming mechanical units connected to the base by piping. "Miniaturised terra-formers," the CO explained, "Just a little too much carbon dioxide here, you can breath it fine for a little while but it'll kill you eventually. It would almost be worth fixing up the whole damn planet 'cept there ain't shit to drill for."

Once through the outer air lock and inside the place looked more like a frat house than a base. Softcore pornographic holograms looked down from walls and out from open locker doors. Physical training equipment littered any open space there seemed to be no strict uniform code, having a tattoo being reason enough not to wear a shirt.

"Hey N7! Check this shit out!" word travels fast in small communities and a bulky, topless marine turned his back to Gable and pointed over his shoulders with both thumbs to the detailed rendering. It stretched from his shoulder blades right down to his pants and it took him a moment to recognise the image as Sovreign attacking the citadel and could only guess at how long it took, let alone the cost, "I got the picture from a buddy who was there! Fucking _there_ man! Right under the squid motherfucker!"

"Private," another marine looked up from a datapad, "Remind me why you have an image of the enemy forever etched into your very hide?" He looked at Gable and smiled as his query was answered for the old man's benefit.

"Because the reapers are badass! You know if that even _was _a reaper."

"Don't even get started with that shit," a third voice piped up, "It's bad enough being trapped on this rock with a Shepard-hater like you. Don't need to hear the conspiracy crap every other day."

The tattooed private laughed, "Fine, whatever. But the only thing more deadly than a _reaper_-" his fingers air quoted the term, "-is a Systems Alliance marine!"

Gable spoke his first, dead-pan words to the group, "Have to wonder if the reapers get tattoos of you guys on their backs."

Sovreign warped and distorted as the marine twisted his shoulders to turn to Gable, "Ha! The N7 fuck is all right after all. Shepard gives you guys a bad name, makes me think you're all a bunch of white knight assholes." A fist playfully struck the captain's shoulder like a sledgehammer.

He liked what he was hearing, the first time another member of the Alliance agreed with him about the commander, "So where is the Hero of the Citadel in your tattoo?"

"Fucks knows. Hiding on the Normandy somewhere, getting ready to sacrifice the fleet to save his new alien buddies."

More voices of contention, "Not again! Dude, you weren't there and you don't know what Shepard did or didn't do."

"I'd expect that from a Shepard ass-licker like you!" the private bellowed, "As far as I'm concerned he wasn't even Alliance anymore. Fucking Spectre, just another Council mook."

"Enough!" Captain Brethson appeared behind Gable and played referee, "Can we go one day without an argument about the same old thing? You kids and your scuttlebutt." Everybody hushed up and went back to what they were doing before Gable had entered.

"Captain," Brethson walked in front of him and motioned away from the gathered grunts, "We'll talk in my office."

He heard whispers as they the supposed rec-room, "Dude, you hear? Guy has a dead geth on his ship."

"That would make a good tattoo."

Brethson's office was the eye of the storm - neat and tidy beyond measure. Gable worried about moving his chair out of its presumably perfect position on the other side of the desk from the base's CO. A holographic screen formed between them and it was a minute or two before Brethson spoke. Getting work done or just reminding Gable that he had a base to run?

"We have it pretty easy out here, operationally speaking. We monitor Blue Suns traffic and every so often an Alliance cruiser comes by for a supply run or to get some jerkass geologist down here. Some guy always reckons there's _something_ worth something in this rock. Never find a thing. For the most part though, I am in charge of fifteen very bored marines and engineers."

Gable remained quiet until he realised the CO wanted a response, "What's your point?"

"My point it that you and your... cargo are an unwelcome distraction for them," the leather chair creaked as Brethson leaned back and Gable noticed dust building in the outside corners of the office's window, "The only thing that could have been more interesting is if you had brought some strange with you."

"All male populace?"

"Would you want to be a girl locked up with these boys for four months?"

Turned out Brethson didn't ask rhetorically, "No, I wouldn't."

"So, how can I help you leave more quickly?"

"I need into the Blue Suns base," Gable crossed his arms but the expected slack-jawed surprise never materialised and the CO gave a simple reply.

"Okay."

"I need to find-" the N7 spook tried his best to act unperturbed.

"What you need in there isn't my concern," Brethson was blunt, "Though I can't help but consider what will happen to your cargo if you don't come back."

_It'll fly off of its own accord, don't worry. _"We'll cross that bridge when we get there or at least, you will."

"Anything else?" Brethson consulted the holo-screen again, "You'll need to wait a few hours before you head out, the sergeant is sleeping." The CO seemed agitated at the mention of this sergeant.

"Who?"

"I have fifteen marines with next to nothing to do," he sounded as though he were repeating a well-worn joke, "And only one of them has a problem with it. Likes to go out on his own, for days sometimes. He became enough of a problem that I had to contact Arcturus and ask him to be redeployed before he attracted too much Blue Suns attention."

"And?"

"No reply," Brethson sunk into his chair like a sulking child, "We are not a priority. Just a set of eyes watching mercs do their thing without the hardware to do anything about it. Hell, I think sometimes we were put out here as bait to draw the Suns into direct confrontation."

Gable understood, "In the mean time they can say they are closely monitoring mercenary operations. Makes for nice headlines."

"Right!" the CO pointed at him like a teacher pleased with a pupil's answer, "I don't like it here any more than the others. Seems like you only end up here for pissing off somebody too high up the food chain. Four months they told me and you can come back to the fray. That was six months ago. Fuckers." Gable had a grip on the place now, an officer on his last nerve and trying hard not to show it. Cut off from the machine and desperate to prove his way back in. He just wanted a quiet few months before he made a new plea to some colonel who had probably forgotten the place even existed. A prison in all but name and Gable may as well have been instigating a jail-break in the CO's eyes.

Only one question remained on Gable's lips, "So who is my guide?"

"I still can't quite pronounce it properly," Brethson let out a small, exhausted laugh, "But the others call him the Ruskie."

"Why?" But Brethson just looked at him as though he were stupid.

* * *

><p>"Because they are ignorant fucks," was the heavily Slovak-accented reply when Gable repeated the question to the man himself, "Russian? Russian! My grandmother would beat me senseless for letting them call me Russian." He was shorter than Gable by a few inches and probably heavier but lean. He was all muscle though not bound by it, the sort of body you get by running a marathon every day. He put the other men on the base to shame and they knew it - he was insulted by all who passed nearby. The armour had once been red but was buffed down to a dull brown by wear and the sandblasting this planet must have occasionally handed out. "He sleeps in it," one engineer told Gable when he asked around. <em>My kind of marine.<em>

They spoke in the barracks by his bunk, "I'm Chechen! Calling me Russian is like spitting in my face. Ahmedov Bitsiraev! Does that sound Russian to you?" unlike his CO Ahmedov did ask rhetorical questions and his angered rant was drawn in the air with waving arms, "Bah! This place! Is like being trapped in old people's home! As soon as they found out I hated being called Russian, they wouldn't stop. Is like being in school! A school full of old, boring men!" His eyes were a wild blue and the dark haired military crew cut was as well maintained as his clean-shaven face. The nose had been broken several times and a short scar ran up through the left side of both lips.

"Captain Brethson said you can get me inside the Blue Suns base?" Gable almost whispered the words.

"Yes, I can do that," a marine walked into the room and Ahmedov remained silent until he left again watching the poor kid like a hawk, "But after that, I will need favour from you. I need you to get me off this fucking planet."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Right, a quick note on the timeline. I re-read the whole thing and noticed a definite difference between the first few chapters and the rest in terms of when we are. I put this down to the release of _Battlefield_ and _Uncharted,_ causing a few weeks hiatus from writing. For the record, we are currently 5-6 weeks after _Redemption_ and still some eighteen months behind _Mass Effect 2._ Which means I will have to make quite the jump in the near future. **

**I have this planned and set. Even written down how each chapter should go just in case something else steals my attentions.**


	14. Chapter 14

It was a relief for Gable to get out of Hotel Kilo, away from the excess of testosterone and the never ending game of one-upsmanship that went on between the men. Ahemdov was more colourful in his summary of the situation, "One day they run out of things to argue over. Have to slap out dicks on table and see who wins." Cabin fever was a major concern, more likely that the marines would end up shooting each other in an argument over Shepard than in a firefight with the actual enemy. According to the sergeant, Shepard was merely the topic of the moment, "Give it two weeks and they'll go back to arguing over who's hotter; asari or quarian females?"

Gable could understand why Sgt. Bitsiraev wanted to get out the base for days on end. The only sounds out on the surface was the wind and the occasional crackle of dust blown against a helmet's visor. Ahmedov sometimes muttered something over their local comms, his asides would never be in English but some long dead local dialect, "Isn't recognised on the universal translators. Really pisses them off on Arcturus and the Citadel. Damn useful." The topography of the world was nothing special, low-lying and rolling hills blown around over millennia but the sky was an almost beautiful sight. Red and pink hues as the sun shone through the gaseous atmosphere.

Gable noted the readouts on a recently acquired omni-tool, given to him by his guide, who claimed that a geologist had lost it one meal time in the mess and it had mysteriously turned up (after the visitor had left) in the sergeant's foot locker. Funny thing, that. It also provided an opportunity to communicate with Phalanx. Verbal conversation was off-limits as it would be picked up by the scanners on Hotel Kilo, so Gable would send short data bursts to the ship and Phalanx could respond in kind. Anybody monitoring the bursts would assume Gable was requesting encrypted files to his omni-tool and dismiss it.

The important aspects of the pair's rushed alliance were sorted out early, within an hour of leaving the base for what Ahmedov said would be a six hour trek - that's 'if the old man can keep up'. Gable asked early on with a false confidence, "Did you talk to your CO before you left?"

"You mean do I know you have dead geth on your ship?" the sergeant laughed, "I don't know what story you fed him but I know it wasn't true, whatever it was." Their voices were both tinny and hollow over the comms.

"And how do you figure that?"

"Because I wouldn't tell him true story either."

"I didn't tell him anything, he didn't even want to know anyway," Gable said, "So I still have my bullshit story as backup in case you get curious."

Ahmedov just laughed, a dark chuckle from a life spent finding the humour in horrific situations, "I look forward to maybe hearing it."

Silence resumed for a short spell and the trek continued. The Blue Suns base was much like Hotel Kilo, the captain was told, except larger in both scale and man power, able to process more air traffic and 'deliveries'. Ahemdov explained how he would load up on rations and watch the base for two or three days at a time, taking note of incoming ships. Don't they do that at Hotel Kilo anyway? Of course, was the reply, but from his vantage point the sergeant could also watch the mercs' reaction to an incoming vessel. Something that seemed on the orbital scanners inconsequential would cause a mass freakout on the ground. If Ahmedov were in command of Hotel Kilo, he would have eyes on the base around the clock. But Brethon, he complained, was like, "Bull with balls cut off, wants to fuck but doesn't see the point."

How many high-ranking Blue Suns stopped off on this forgotten rock? Not realising they were in the crosshairs of an Alliance scope, regardless of the finger never actually being on the trigger. Gable wanted desperately to ask about any unusual activity in the past few weeks but held his tongue, not wanting to let Bitsiraev in quite yet. _Can I trust him?_

He hadn't answered the request back in the barracks to be taken off the planet and simply said, "Let's see how this goes first." Ahmedov had studied him closely, perfectly still before springing to life on the bunk with a slap of both thighs. They then ate together in the mess - much to the quiet disapproval of the other men on base as though he had chosen sides in some age old conflict - and visited the armoury, an Aladdin's cave of wonders confiscated from Blue Suns ships that misjudged their entry into the atmosphere. Gable never found out for sure if the sergeant's insistence that it was perfectly okay to take whatever he liked was true but he grabbed himself a Lancer all the same. There were more sophisticated arms there but that translated as more likely to jam up with the dust outside. The sheath on his right thigh that had been empty of a combat knife for some time was reunited with cold steel.

Ahmedov was quiet, answering only when posed a question. Used to working alone and if Gable hadn't his social hours with a machine lately he might have been quiet too and besides, the sergeant seemed to be on the same wavelength. The question from him was inevitable, "How'd you end up here?"

"Same way everybody else did," Ahmedov's reply was offhand but the anger was there, "Just did my job until the reaction from the brass changed."

"I know what you mean."

"Do you?" his reply was a little too quick, like he'd been waiting to get this off his chest, "No doubt you were on some classified N7 op that they had to deny and you took the fall for. But you guys are just too fucking important to let slip away and they haul you back in again. Too many credits invested in the training not to take you back."

"Wait a fuck-" but the sergeant wasn't finished.

"Guys like me though? They just grabbed me out of the rank and file, send me off on black ops as cannon fodder, 'translator' they called it. Only mistake I made was that I kept coming back alive. Didn't think I could keep anything secret since I not academy trained. You fucking N6 and N7 spooks are all the same, thinking you have it tough. There's _always_ someone worse off, even if it's just the guy whose name is on the anonymous data file." Gable nearly swung for him at the closing statement, "You, Shepard and all the academy guys, think the whole galaxy owes you a fucking break." The captain started to understand why the men in Hotel Kilo tried their best to piss this guy off, Sergeant Bitsiraev was an asshole and a hypocrite. _But he's right, no denying that._

Gable remained calm in his words as the rant ended, "You aren't convincing me that it's worth taking you with me off-world."

"It wouldn't be for the conversation," Ahmedov snorted. _Don't have to be friends with those you work with. _Still, Gable would reserve final judgement until his business in the base was complete.

The Blue Suns base stood out against the dust and rock. Though the planet doing its level best to claim the off-white structures as its own, with piles of strewn sand and particles gathering at any corner of perimeter that made contact with the ground. "We have to clean out our own filters every week," Ahmedov had said, "Stuff gets everywhere." Worth it though, a little bit of regular housekeeping to keep a base of considerable size off of the main radars. The wind was howling by the time they reached the perimeter and Gable had to squint through the visual filter of lifted dust to keep a fix on the largest single structure. All that remained truly visible were any lights and a red dot blinked, showing the highest point - only some forty feet above the slow-shifting dust.

Ahmedov stopped in a crater a few hundred metres from the base, its edges curved and smooth. It seemed recent and the wind had only started filling it. He beckoned Gable to stop while they discussed their next move. "They get as bored as us," Ahmedov joked, "Watched them test weapons out here. Each guy wanted a bigger hole than the last. Went back inside after this one." He laughed then added, "Back at Hotel Kilo a good time is going out without helmet and getting light-headed." Not a laugh of derision but more as if it were a fond memory from life there. The guys at the base might well have been a bunch of dicks but Gable got the feeling that the sergeant still wouldn't take anyone else talking shit about them.

"Any ground defences?" Gable tried to get the lay of the land.

"Against what? Sixteen marines? All their attentions look up and out," the sergeant scratched between plates at his inner elbow, "All you have to worry about is someone deciding he wants to enjoy view."

"Ain't much of a view today."

The reply was in whatever bastardised mix of Slovak languages he used before he translated, "Funny."

"How did you get in?"

"Air vent, classic," Ahmedov smiled although his scarred lips didn't move evenly and created more of a sneer, "Because of the dust they don't have all the terra-formers running at once, always one you can get into. On day like this? More than one."

"You do the same?"

"If it means doing less work, the guys don't mind breathing a little shallower," he said, "If there's big sandstorm we don't even bother leaving our bunks." He went on to describe how he crawled in the vent for thirty-odd minutes, tight and slow-going, passing underneath five separate rules. He asked Gable what he was looking for. Network access? Second room, had a console inside and the vent large enough to climb through, should still be loose. "Doesn't matter how I got it open," he snapped when pressed and Gable logged the outburst in the back of his mind.

"Where will you be?"

"Overwatch," was the answer. Any other day and it might have been reassuring but in conditions like those it was little more than a joke. "Maybe you get lucky, wind stays up until you inside and dies so I can see. Maybe it doesn't. Maybe it dies when you are climbing into vent and some lazy Blue Sun sees you out window." And he shrugged with the wind eroding their armour one particle at a time.

"How small a vent are we talking?" Gable hated not being as lithe as he once was.

"You'll fit, your weapons won't," Ahmedov outstretched a hand, "Keep the knife though, you'll need screwdriver." Gable hesitated but handed over the assault rifle and pistol. _Don't want the opportunity to fire a shot in the place anyway._

The sergeant shared his fear of unwanted attention, "If the wind does die, I can only be your eyes out here."

"Yeah, I know," Gable almost went to scratch his beard before remembering he had a helmet on. _Not even a mercy shot if I'm captured._

"Should be easy for N7 like you," but it was anything but a reassuring compliment.

"What's your plan if I get caught?"

"Same as Captain Brethson's," Ahmedov was deadpan and serious, "What's my plan if _who_ gets caught? Never heard of him." And then actually became reassuring in his final words before they parted ways, "Look, people don't like spending time in the sections connected to the terra-formers on standby. Harder to breathe. It'll most probably be empty for duration."

[On base perimeter. Ready software for transmission. Ready ship for take-off at my command.]

[Software primed. Ship powered off. Ready for quick start. Suggest no erratic action should be taken.]

Gable was nearly certain that the constant use of 'erratic' was Phalanx creating a joke of its own accord, knowing that he would or would not be erratic regardless of its advice. His omni-tool flashed out of being as he trudged over the deceptively soft ground toward the rear of the base, or at least the opposite side from the landing pad, where the six miniature terra-formers stood. Through the dust he could see that four were humming dutifully and together were larger than his ship, each was connected to the base by two long, metal pipes that seemed just large enough for him to snake his way along.

A section of the base reached out to one of the units so that the pipes ran under it as Ahmedov had mentioned. Keeping watch at whatever windows were in view through the conditions, Gable cautiously approached the hulking, conditioning unit that towered at almost three times his height. There was a maintenance hatch on one of the pipes some ten feet along its length toward the base, screwed on tight at all four corners. With some strained effort he heaved himself onto the pipe and straddled it as he worked.

_Good thing he can't see you showing your age. _The screws showed signs of having been removed before by way of knife point and Gable wondered if 'maintenance' was ever carried out at all. Getting into the pipe itself was beyond awkward and he considered leaving his armour, braving the atmosphere as he found himself head and torso inside with legs dangling in the dust storm. In a display that would have been funny to watch, Gable wormed his way into the pipe until his legs painfully dropped inside too. He had all the time of a slow crawl of a hundred feet to think about how he would manage to get out again.

Time to worry. Worry that Brethson would get too curious about the geth and the price he could get for it, even though tampering with the ship would end in a shoot out between his boys and Phalanx. Worry that Sgt. Bitsiraev would fuck off back to Hotel Kilo and leave him in the lurch. Alone in that cramped space, uncomfortably shuffling along an inch at a time with nothing but your doubts. _Did somebody see me climb into this thing? Waiting until I get climb back out to nab me._ Cramp began to sink into his shoulders from the constant, tiny swivels he used to move along.

He passed under the first room, light filtering through the ventilation grate and although Ahmedov told him it was the second room he should concern himself with, Gable took some time to roll over uncomfortably to his back. Stripes painted across his haggard face, he pushed on it hard with both hands but it didn't so much as budge - fastened down tight by whatever means on the other side. _How the hell did he get it open? _He flopped himself back over onto his belly and continued on, wondering if there was some knack to it or if the sergeant was even more freakishly strong than he looked.

His legs went to sleep and Gable could only ignore the numb sensation as he focused on the next beam of striped light that caught the dust floating around in the disused pipe. The short distance was tougher on the old joints than his footchase back on Omega and was thankful not to have gone through with discarding his armour - the elbow pads saved him a lot of extra discomfort. Even though his face was pushed up close to his visor. Breath steaming on the inside of the glass.

Upon reaching the second grate he collapsed, sprawled as far out as the space allowed and caught his breath. The nerve-endings in his legs sprang back into spasmodic life and he endured it before shifting himself once again onto his back. The grate was different from the first though had once been identical to it, its corners now a burnt black and the edges buckled slightly inward from the shelved opening in the floor on which it sat. _Warped and charred by a fucking biotic. He knew I would find out, why not just come clean? _No time for doubts now.

Gable pushed at it with one hand and found it loose, held down only by its self-weight, pushed it away toward his feet and found the direction blocked. To the left instead and the scene was set for the spook's less than graceful exit from the claustrophobe's nightmare. The lights were on in the off-white room but dim - power saving measure - and he moved around the space of cubicles searching for network access from a terminal, wondering why cold-blooded mercenaries would need a room that looked like an office. _Cheap living space is cheap living space I guess. _

The terminal sat in a corner and Gable would need his back to the room's only door to use it. A window ran along the opposite wall and he could see the storm was still in full swing. No overwatch, assuming Bitsiraev hadn't just high-tailed it back to base as soon as Gable was out of sight. No friendly eyes on him and who knows how many guns for hire would be alerted when he accessed the console. Or how Hotel Kilo would react to the live stream of information that would erupt when Phalanx activated its hacking software through the omni-tool._Remember to ask later if it considered the whole plan to be erratic._

[In position. Send software.]

[Software sending. Delivery complete.]

One last, long breath before he activated the terminal using the omni-tool.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Back into the swing of things now. When I do find the time I am listening to blues and reading John Le Carré (_The Honourable Schoolboy) _before settling into serious writing. One thing I am taking from the book is that I try not to put everything a character says into speech marks, threading it into the narrative. It's something I enjoyed reading so figured I might try it out.**


	15. Chapter 15

There are times when the odds are stacked firmly against you and the house seems destined to win. When Murphy's Law comes into play and everything that can go wrong looks set to. And then, just when night seems its darkest, something unforeseen comes into the fray and you leave the situation unscathed, maybe carrying out more than you walked in with and wondering just how lucky you are. Things always look darkest just before the dawn, as the saying goes. But for Gable, alone in a hostile mercenary base, dawn never seemed further away as he activated Phalanx's software on the Blue Suns private network. And everything that he worried could have gone wrong in that first instance, did.

The lights in the room of office cubicles pinged into full brightness, followed by those along the corridor to his left - partitioned by a low, thin wall and long pane of glass. The terminal's screen turned crimson with warning messages as Phalanx's worm went about its business. Gable's heart went at his chest like a jackhammer as he waited. Waited for the storm to lift, for Phalanx to give the all clear or for the round to pierce his helmet and skull. For something, _anything_. All he had was speculation and worry. Fear that a squad of Blue Suns were creeping down the corridor toward the room, shoot first and make a story up later. He was glued impotently to the spot and stared at the terminal as page after page of encrypted data flashed briefly behind the warnings of 'unauthorised access'.

"Captain Gable," Phalanx's dead voice in his hear startled Gable, "Hotel Kilo is attempting contact with the ship. Orders are to desist immediately."

The game was up and verbal communication seemed like the smallest clue to Gable's story being bullshit now, "How much time do you need?"

"Unclear."

"Perfect," no time for sarcasm, "Do you need the omni-tool to be active?"

"We need it in close proximity to the terminal so that-" Gable didn't hear the rest, too busy disconnecting the device from the gauntlet on his left arm and laying it on the floor beside the flashing terminal, "Suggest we pick you up from the base."

"Unless you want to wait six hours while I walk back?" Gable was incredulous. _This isn't the time for useless questions, it'll only answer them_.

"We would rather not wait."

_Christ. _"Right, dust off and get your collective ass to the far side of the base. Fly low and give the place a wide berth, hopefully the storm should cover your approach."

"ETA, thirty minutes."

Gable forced a passive-aggressive reminder, "Let me know when the software has finished, okay?" No reply. "Okay?" he pressed.

"Yes," Phalanx eventually responded, "We presumed the question was rhetorical."

_Picks the wrong fucking time to try and learn new things. _Gable turned back to scout out the room for anything durable, any cover. The whole place was plastic partitions and shitty furniture incapable of stopping a swift kick let alone a high velocity round. He made a low run to the door, passed the long window that peered into an empty corridor beyond which alternate lengths of wall and window showed the duststorm still blowing hard. It hissed open to herald his proximity and Gable tucked himself into the corner of the room beyond it.

It closed again and there was nothing left to do but wait - as before but in a slightly more tactical position - for a squad of mercs or Phalanx's steely tones in his ear. He thought about making a swift exit back the way he came but what if they entered and found the omni-tool? Nothing for it but to draw his knife, wait for the drumroll of footfalls and demands to show himself or (and?) face the consequences. _Been in worse situations than this, _but he responded to his own remeasurement, _But you weren't so fucking old then. Shepard would get out of this just fine. _At the very least he would have had back-up and a formidable ship as an escape plan when the shit hit the fan.

_What have I got? A knife, a sniper in overwatch who can't see me and couldn't even shoot if he could see me. And on top of all that I only have a fucking geth coming to save my ass f- _Footsteps in the hall, only one set and they scarcely seemed in any kind of a rush. Suddenly the knife in Gable's hand seemed more than enough and more importantly, quiet. Time was all he needed and gunshots would reduce it considerably. The footsteps became louder but no quicker and a muttering voice soon accompanied, exasperated and bored, "If they just shut down the whole area they wouldn't have these bloody surges in the terminals. 'Don't take your helmet-" he put on a voice, "-won't be in there long enough'. Long enough to give me a headache and the dust? Don't get me started."

Either there was another set of legs walking in tandem or the guy was yammering to himself. _Better safe than sorry. _The muttering switched to a relaxed whistle and Gable's whole body tensed as the footsteps passed by the portion of the wall he crouched beside, stopping outside the door. They speak of a calm before the storm, but only ever in hindsight. At that moment Gable was a coiled spring, still capable of containing no small amount of energy as old and rusty as he was. His knees ached and his hand gripped at the knife's handle so tight he feared breaking his fingers when it came time to plunge it in whichever gap between armour plates.

Even when the door hissed open and the whistling reached its peak volume it could still have all gone wrong, would he check the room before heading toward the terminal? Was the whole thing an act to lull Gable into a false sense of security? He nearly bolted to his feet to catch his would be assailant off guard, to swing the knife into the torso and hope to catch him between the chest plating, but training and experience steadied his nerve. Even when the first boot appeared across the threshold, he didn't bring his bladed fist heavily down upon it and pierce all the foot's major tendons. He had made his bet, that the head would be too focused on the terminal to check the far corner.

The dice were rolled and Gable overcame every desire to close his eyes as the other foot followed the first inside. And so he saw his gamble pay off, saw the foot head to the left along with the rest of the body. The old marine had to allow himself a small smile at the sight of the mercenary strolling away from toward the terminal, a human with no armour and no visible weapons. A short crop of dark hair bobbed atop dark blue overalls as Gable crept out from his hiding place and silently gained ground on the unaware technician. "What the hell is this?" the voice cracked at the situation with the terminal. _Now before he turns around, do it! Nail the bastard! _Though he stilled his blade, too much of a stretch to outright kill him and a man can still call for back up with a weeping slash across his back. A few more steps, made all the easier as the technician stopped dead to scratch his head in confusion at the terminal's screen. Gable drew a quick breath through his nose, echoed by the confined space of his helmet, and went for it.

With his empty left hand, Gable grabbed the technician's wrist from behind his head and forced it clockwise, twisting it behind the his back like a chicken wing. There was a yell of anguish and the Blue Sun tried to turn to his left with his free fist swinging uselessly. Gable responded by pushing him into the wall that adjoined the corridor, faced pressed hard against the glass. A foot came down hard on Gable's boot, the only futile action left to the mercenary in his sorry position and the ex-marine responded by lifting the arm a half-inch further up behind his back. This was met with a high-pitched wail and the Blue Sun went loose, understanding what the situation had become.

"Smart guy," Gable couldn't hide the excitement in his voice, too much quiet time and too much legwork seized up his old joints. Never could get over the rush of cracking some skulls, "I will break your arm if you give me any trouble and I will sever your spinal column if you make a call to your boss. We clear?" The tip of the knife was carefully tapped against the man's lower back to send home the second threat.

His cheek rubbed and squeaked against the window as he quickly nodded, "S-sure buddy, sure. Whatever you want." He couldn't have been older than twenty and had made a sorry attempt at growing a beard. His voice cracked and whined, "Shit man, shit. Whatever you want, I can't help. I'm just the guy who fixes shit." His nerves seemed to shrink his vocabulary.

"I need you not to fix that terminal," Gable moved in close, spoke right into the merc's ear, "I need you to buy me some time. You in contact with the base from here?"

The man swallowed hard, "Yeah, I got a two-way in my pocket. Anyone calls me, you'll know."

"You have to call in?" the scared face turned confused, like Gable had just asked him for the meaning of life, "About the terminal? Do you have to call it in when you get here?" Still no answer. "This isn't difficult. Will they miss you?"

The young mercenary was calming down, the adrenaline that came with fear now gone, just not enough oxygen in the air to keep it up, "Yeah, when I figure out the issue I gotta call it in."

"So call it in."

"But I don't know what the problem is."

"Yeah you do, he has you against a window with a knife ready to give you a lumbar puncture."

"I call that in?" the guy blinked his eyes tight at his own stupidity and tried to shake his head but was prevented by the window, "No, shit. Of course I don't."

"Of course you don't," Gable confirmed, "You're a smart guy, make something up. Something that'll take a little time to fix."

The merc swallowed hard and asked politely, "Could you take me off the wall? I can't get to my radio."

Gable obliged the request and eased off, allowing him to stand a little straighter, "Could you- could you let go of my arm? I'd sound more natural if I wasn't so uncomfortable."

"Don't push it. Just suck it up and deal with it."

And he was back to apologies as steel brushed the fabric of his overalls against the skin of his lower back, "Oh! Hey, sure, I guess it's not _that_ uncomfortable."

"Good lad," Gable smirked.

The technician fumbled in a pocket unseen to Gable's line of sight and spoke, cool as you like, "Control, come back."

Agonising seconds ticked by until a harsh and husky voice emanated from somewhere on the mercenary's person, "This is Control, what you got down there Marshall?" _Is he eating something and working at the same time?_

"Something more than a power surge this time, machine is going nuts on the screen," and with a small prod from the ex-marine at his back, "Might take a little time to get fixed."

The follow-up question from Control seemed queer and out of place, "Something chew through the cables down there or something?"

The merc fell limp, there was no right answer to this and Gable knew it too. What else could the poor bastard say? "No sir, no sign of anyone here but me," the scared, tiny voice of a man who knows his end is near. The knife made it quick at least, the kid was dead before the blade was halfway in. The old man carefully lowered the heavily twitching body to the floor, letting the nerves in its limbs live out their final messages from a severed spinal column. The knife was a lot harder to remove than to put in, its serrations were caught on some cartilage and the sound as it was removed would have been horrific to less desensitised ears. He flipped the corpse when it stopped skipping like a broken record and searched the pockets for the two-way.

"Marshall? This is Control, don't fuck me about."

Gable's stiff, stubby fingers found the small transceiver, "Marshall's dead Control, you and your clever questions saw to that."

A quiver in the voice but it quickly recovered, "Who is this?"

"No time to talk," Gable's voice was all business, the body he crouched next to was little more than an occupational inconvenience, "Gotta get ready for the squad you're about to send down here." A response came squawking through the device but was ignored as the old spook got to his feet and took one more step to crushed the dropped, two-way radio.

Marshall's blue overalls slowly smeared to a thick purple and oozed slowly out onto the concrete floor. Gable ignored this and peeked into the hall with a hiss of the door. Empty. He hurried along to the next room, some twenty feet, and looked for anything to be used as cover. A filing cabinet, empty, provided the right balance of durability and manoeuvrability. With some effort, he was able to waddle it to the doorway before letting it drop across the width of the corridor with a crash. On its side it was no more than two feet tall but provided a good enough base for an impromptu barricade. In the few minutes he felt he had, Gable grabbed anything close to the door that wasn't tied down. Soon the filing cabinet had atop and in front of it a mix of desks, chairs and personal terminals. He finally tossed a cubicle partition over the whole mess and hurried back to the office with Marshall's body.

"Phalanx," finger to his helmet's ear, "ETA."

"Seventeen minutes," the machine continued, "We received small arms fire to the ship's belly. No breaches detected." _Hope the barricade is more a mental hurdle, make them worry I use it to make shooting them easier. _With what though? Bluffs were all he had and they aren't much use against anyone with a pair of balls. Would they even risk a full frontal assault down such an obvious bottleneck? With the storm still heaving the planet's surface through the air it seemed all the more likely. The plan didn't change; hide, wait and hope to disarm one of them of something more range than his arm. He thought of Sergeant Bitsiraev out there with his weapons.

_Why did I take his word for it and not bring the gun? Could've pushed it along in front of me through the pipe. _Hindsight is always crystal clear and worthless. _Because you wanted him to trust you and to see if you could trust him. _Gable slapped at his helmet in anger. He was turning fatalistic and looked back to see where it all went wrong instead of figuring out how to put it right.

A voice in his helmet brought him out of his own, self-pitying thoughts, "Hey buddy, how about you just come on out here?" Ahmedov had been right about the Blue Suns being as bored as the Hotel Kilo marines, the voice on the local channel sounded pleased as punch to finally see some action. Gable's mood instantly switched and the blood started to pump again. _Another barricade? Inside the door? Why not._

"How you boys doing?" Gable kept the tone cheerful, it was all business after all, nothing personal. He began grabbing loose tables and chairs to pile against the door, it hissed open and closed as he went.

"We're doing just fine out here," there was a small laugh from the squad leader, "You sound like you're making a mess in there though."

"What's your name? As we're being civil about this." He knew they were creeping down the corridor, maybe having a quick peek into the other rooms. They would stop at the first feng-shui disaster all the same. Gable left the door barricade half finished and kept one section of the stand-alone plastic wall to hand. They would use flashbangs to clear the room before they came in, he hoped. Hoped as well that explosives would be a last resort - nobody likes a dust storm blowing around indoors.

"Fuck that, what's yours?"

"Commander Shepard," a joke with a purpose. There was laughter in response, even from the other mercenaries presumably supposed to be listening in silently. Gable made out at least four separate voices.

"If that's true," the lead voice talked over the fading laughter, "We're all about to be famous."

"I'll deliver the obituary to your mother, _personally_," Gable turned serious, "Enough chit-chat. Come get me." He heard them reach the first mess of furniture and argue with muffled voices who was to break through the thing whilst the others provided cover. Once they realised that Gable wasn't going to pop out and shoot them as they did so, the bumps and crashed of deconstruction intensified and the footsteps returned. They had spread themselves along the remainder of the corridor up to the entrance to the door in front of him, he could figure out that much by ear alone. He just wanted it all to be over one way or the other as he crouched in his now familiar corner of the room, shoddy blast shield at the ready.

The door hissed open but was concealed almost fully to the top by a desk and a gun muzzle protruded through the small gap, catching him off guard - _Bastard crept the last few paces_ - and rattled any loose debris to make a larger space. Gable knew what came next and lifted the plastic partition wall over his crouched frame before he heard the tell-tale clink of the flashbang hitting the door frame and landing several feet into the room.

Even with his eyes clamped shut and homemade shield there was a blinding red flash as the light passed through his eyelids and a ringing in his ears as though the comms unit had blown a fuse. He only half-heard his own muffled 'fuuuuuck' and the low crunch of a body shoving against the table that blocked the door. These were expected. The room shaking for a moment and the sudden scuffle of dust hitting his helmet was not, Gable threw off the section of thin wall to find the table fallen on its side with nobody in the room. More curious was the fact that the wind had somehow found its way indoors.

Ears still ringing and knife in hand, Gable pushed to his feet and dashed at the mostly clear doorway - the door had tried to close and found itself caught on a chair leg. He hoped to catch a Blue Sun on his way through and instead found a salarian in blue armour looking away from the room back down the corridor, assault rifle raised. Never one to question good luck he lunged over the torso, tripping a little on a chair and shoved the unaware merc against the far wall. He stabbed wildly and repeatedly at the less well-armoured midriff. Again and again the blade pierced and punctured soft flesh or dented against the tough plate. He was lost to a blind rage and the salarian's lower back was a mess of spilt blood and exposed tissue when he regained his composure.

Gable left the knife in the corpse and pried the rifle from dead hands, rose to a one-kneed crouch and aimed down the sights. Panting and disorientated from the adrenaline it took him a moment to realise it was Sergeant Ahmedov Bitsiraev he had down his scope. The storm whipped around in the corridor and chaos behind him from the newly created puncture wound in the base itself, sand seeping through it to claim back what was once its. His ears hadn't recovered enough to hear his words the first time and Gable had to shout to hear his own voice, "What?"

"I said," the sergeant merely smirked, "You're welcome."

There was no time for an explanation and scarcely enough to set up a crude, timed explosive from whatever they were able to scavenge from the bodies, some disfigured to such an extent that the sand clung to the chunks and the wind just couldn't shift it again. It was left near the terminal and abandoned omni-tool before the two escaped by the Sergeant's new entrance. All Gable could do was try not to lose Ahmedov as they raced through the swirling red cloud away from their mess and only after his lungs threatened to give up on him did he call for a halt.

"You're-" Gable wheezed and felt an oncoming coughing fit, "You're a biotic." It came out sounding far less of an accusation then he had planned it to. His body was screaming too loud for his voice to try the same.

"A biotic who just saved your life," even the sergeant sounded a little out of breath, both men were bent over with their hands on their knees "You have to take me with you now."

"I can't," for a moment it seemed as though the Chechen was about to shoot him outright, "But I owe you sergeant. Fuck, do I ever owe you."

* * *

><p>Nobody ever got the full story of what happened on the forgotten, desolate red rock of a world. Everybody had their own part of the tale and few wanted to share it with any others who had been involved. As far as The Blue Suns' command at the base knew, this was the work of one operative so they played it safe - despite calls from some of their number for a full retaliation against the Hotel Kilo Observation Base - and got in direct contact with Captain Brethson to see if he had any information that could prevent an overreaction. The CO lied through his teeth and claimed that they had caught a lone ship on their scanners, pulled it down for a routine inspection and presumed it was one of theirs. The truce was maintained in the mean time.<p>

Brethson, for his part, got in contact with Arcturus Station and gave them the full low-down on events, claiming that Gable had caused all the damage at the Blue Suns base. Which, as far he was aware, was entirely true. He made no mention of the geth or his men firing at the ship, perhaps still fearing that he was interfering with a classified operation. He was given another four months at Hotel Kilo for his trouble and didn't think things could get any worse than that.

Sergeant Ahmedov Bitsiraev returned to Hotel Kilo and played dumb, saying that Gable had abandoned him at the base and he then wandered back of his own accord. Explosion? Gun fire? Well, it was very windy out there sir. He was questioned officially by his CO upon his return and its recording was placed on public record. He was questioned a second time unofficially upon the arrival of a frigate from Arcturus - sent to soften over the situation with the Blue Suns - a recording of which cannot be found anywhere on public networks but was listened to on a need-to-know basis. After this second line of questioning, the sergeant discovered there were worse places than Hotel Kilo that someone who needs to be forgotten about can be sent. The secret recording was heard by Gable soon after, locked quietly away in a secure Alliance network and found in passing by Phalanx.

It did not make for pleasant listening and led Gable to believe that Bitsiraev had been one of Ward's many sleeper agents who happened to get lucky with the ex-N7's arrival at his base. And at the time of listening to it, some two months after the event, was glad he hadn't taken him onboard.

When the full story is never revealed in any comprehensive form, the gaps will be filled as meets the needs of those doing the digging. The wildest conspiracy theorists would only whisper it and whilst it was later proved to be entirely laughable, the idea was put forth that it was the work of a rogue and very much alive Commander Shepard. Gable laughed so hard when he heard this that he was asked to please leave the bar as he was causing a scene.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Well this chapter was a beast, I just loved it so much and kept adding to it. One or two more chapters and we make the jump to Mass Effect 2.**


	16. Chapter 16

Craw was working his own bar in the squalid Omega slum when Gable stumbled back in, slowly cleaning one glass with his enormous hands turning over and over. Visible from the waist upwards and his shoulders carried a slight haze from lights behind catching the sparse hairs. He was wearing a stained white vest and his mind was obviously elsewhere as he didn't even notice the old marine enter and head over to him. When Gable spoke, Craw stopped rubbing the glass with the rag but didn't look away from whatever he managed to see in the far wall that others could not, "I think it's clean."

"Probably," the proprietor said eventually and placed it face down on the fake hardwood, "Place is dead today. Dead all week." He wasn't kidding Gable realised as he looked about at the handful of Alliance personnel that were scattered about with solemn faces nursing drinks, fingers slowly skirted round glass rims. Craw reduced to being barman meant that both arms of his business had ground to a near halt.

"Archangel stepped his game not long after you left," Craw dropped so his elbows were on the bar, thick fingers intertwined and knuckles were cracked without due care, "Turned from white knight cop to goddamn terrorist. Guy is fucking up every operation that I try to run out of Omega. Got himself a couple of accomplices to boot."

Gable put a hand on one of his huge shoulders, "Don't tell me you're having to work for a living?"

Craw angrily shook off the false sympathy, "Ah go fuck yourself. It's hurting the independent businessman."

"Like you?"

"Like me," Craw scratched at where his neck should have been, "He ain't got the balls to go after the big boys yet and is messing with the smaller merc bands for now." Gable remembered his words with the turian at the dock before he had departed, not realising at the time that they would be so taken to heart.

"What can you do?" the old man shrugged and pulled up a stool.

"Hope he finds his balls soon and realises that screwing with my business doesn't help Omega one bit," Craw put on his preacher hat, "I don't even work on the station just out of the place."

"Can I get a drink?"

Craw looked at him properly for the first time since he had walked in with the renewed focus of a man trying to forget his own troubles, "Fuck, you looked like you got chewed up and shat out."

"You mean 'spat out'?" Gable wearily lifted his arm to point at him.

"No." They both laughed at this.

"Trail went cold," Gable said and then went further, "Hell it just let out one final wheeze and died on its ass."

Craw made an exaggerated pout - a ludicrous face for a man of his size - and reached under the bar to produce a bottle, "So get in contact with the client. Let them know things went tits up. Offer them a refund to sweeten things?"

Gable inspected the bottle of amber fire and replied as Craw dug out two whiskey glasses, "If you knew what I took from him on this one, you wouldn't be talking about refunds." They stopped to toast and drink, Gable savoured the burn in his mouth and throat. Even a twinge of dull pain as the alcohol sought out and numbed the exposed gum of his missing tooth.

"I ain't holding onto anything for you that somebody will come looking for," Craw poured them each another drink, "Especially if you ain't gonna be here when they do. I don't need a bullet in _my_ head with _your _name on it."

"I wouldn't do that to you."

"If you thought you could get away with it without my knowing, of course you would," only the man mountain laughed this time, his chest rose and fell, "Look. What you need from me? What's worth risking Archangel's dick up your ass by coming back here?"

"A job," Gable said after emptying the glass, "I need to lie low for a good while."

* * *

><p>Phalanx and Gable hadn't left the planet immediately and instead their ship had high-tailed it away from both bases at a vast rate of knots. The storm was seemingly endless and the view from the helm refused to change to anything other than swirling red dust. How many billions of particles? Gable's mind wandered, trying not to think himself into a paranoid corner over recent events until he said, "Put her down."<p>

"Captain-" insubordination from a geth.

"Just put her down."

"Yes." The hum of the engines lurched and died down as the wrecked heaved down onto the rocky surface.

"Power off."

"Yes." There was almost no difference between the orders and the replies. Gable felt like he was going to burst and put a hand out to a console to steady himself.

"How much did you get of the Blue Suns network?"

"In the time allowed we managed to download ninety three point three eight seven-" it stopped as if in realisation, "Most of the Blue Suns private network. It is still encrypted and will take time to decipher."

"My priority right now is your leash," Gable rubbed a hand up from his beard, over his face and through the short grey hair, "It won't be long before Ward hears what happened back there and I don't need him sending signals to get you back to cover his own ass."

"Our countermeasures are almost complete," Phalanx remained in the same seated position talking to him as it had when piloting the ship, "Though we have no accurate way of testing the code."

"I can think of one way."

"We cannot advise against that strongly enough," Gable had to pretend there was urgency in the response, "If it were to fail we do not know what would happen."

"You do," Gable pressed, almost enjoying the existential quandary he had forced upon the machine. The planet's swirling atmosphere howled, dust scuffed at the ship from every angle and rose to a rattle when the wind gusted at its very peak. The two remained silent but only one really listened to the background noise. "Look, we don't need the 'sword of Damocles' over our heads. What?" Phalanx had turned up and out of the seat.

"It is not like you to make such references."

"Hey!" he was on the defensive, "I fucking read. Uppity machine."

"You are correct. The countermeasures will become our priority." Why hadn't it been already? Surely the constant threat of instant 'death' was something that any living creature would wish to remedy. Perhaps the only thing worse than something _maybe_ happening was to force the issue, one way or the other. Wait, had it changed the subject? At Gable's mention of Damocles, Phalanx had shifted focus from the topic at hand. Just how 'fearful' was the machine of its termination? What was the current split of consensus amongst the programs for and against testing its new coding?

These questions would have probably been answered had Gable only asked them. The responses would have come quickly and in succinct fashion but any real meaning ascribed to them would have been his own. Though Gable was also wary of asking such questions in case there was no easy answer, for the machine or for him. He had pushed the issue far enough to keep momentum in the mission and hopefully remove one major threat. Best to stop before he had a Nihilist geth to contend with, forever questioning just what it was all for.

Gable picked at a splodge of congealed sand and dust from his forearm before noting another and another. No doubt freed vital fluid finding its way either from the technician or the salarian and onto his person. "Besides," he said eventually, "If we do talk to Ward and it all goes to shit better he gets fully encrypted Blue Suns intel instead of an open book."

"You are not inspiring confidence," a human would have sulked saying this.

"And you don't need any," Gable quipped, "You boys keep at that code. I gotta go jerk off and get some sleep." He let it hang in the air before he added, "That was a joke."

"You would jest about sleeping?"

"No, about the- wait, was _that_ a joke?" But Phalanx didn't respond and the ex-marine left him in silence. Had Sean Gable been a scientist or R&D engineer and had Phalanx been in some observation chamber this would all have been very interesting; the adaptation of an AI's speech patterns and thought processes to ease communication. But neither of those things were the case and the small exchange left Gable thinking if he were really the best example of humanity for a geth to be emulating. The collective would need to fashion geth eyebrows to raise at Phalanx's jokes if he ever returned.

The very idea of Gable's mannerisms being absorbed into the geth hive mind did make him laugh as he removed his armour and collapsed into the bunk. He quickly passed out to the strange harmony of wind and dust against the hull.

"_Who the hell are you?__" _Commander Shepard demanded and Gable woke with a panting start. The wind was as dead as the ship and the only sounds were his hastened breaths and their echo. As he swung his feet down to the floor a pain crushed his chest like a vice and shot down his arm. His eyes clamped shut but not as tight as his jaws and threatened to crack his own teeth off of one another. _A heart attack?_ No he could still move, it did eventually pass and this forced a massive inhale of breath. It was as if his artery were trying to escape the body wholesale with a pain so bad that the lack of it was nothing but a cruel reminder of its ferocity.

_Nothing a drink won't fix and a life without it wouldn't have prevented. _He lifted himself up and put a hand against the mirror above the sink as he emptied his sinuses of mucus. No way of telling how long he'd been out, for all Gable knew the ship had been swallowed up by the shifting surface of the planet. "Phalanx!" he groaned and waited for the speaking-clock voice though none came. Cursing the ship's systems being down, including comms, he forced open the door and stumbled his way - still somewhat groggy from the mild coronary attack - through the guts of the vessel.

Phalanx had returned to its seated position when he reached the helm, "How long was I out?"

"Seven hours, thirty six minutes and-"

Gable wasn't feeling polite, "How close are you to completing the code?"

"The code is complete."

Gable clapped his heavy hands together, "So fire up this shit heap and hail the bastard on the comms."

"Captain Gable," Phalanx was cautious or so it seemed, "We suggest you leave the confrontation for a later time."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he ignored the pleas for more thought, "You guys are pussying out on me, I get it."

"That is not our-" a pause as it processed the ex-marine's word choice, "-stance. Confronting Colonel Ward will reveal our intent to work independently from him."

"I reckon he's been working on that assumption from the get go," Gable explained, "Who knows how many sets of eyes and ears he has out there. Word will have reached him about what happened here from Brethson or maybe another."

"Another?"

"Some special forces sergeant," Gable speculated, "Ahemedov Bitsiraev or something. Saved my life and I don't quite know why. Wanted to come with me. With us."

"You think Ward may have sent him to watch us?"

"Not exactly, I think he got lucky. Just keep an ear to the ground for the name." Paranoia? Maybe, but it just wasn't worth the risk to take him along. Loyalty all comes down to the guy who asked you first or the one who asked you nicest. Gable had a gut feeling about Ahmedov and in the situation he had just escaped gut feelings are more than enough to go on. All the same he told the sergeant he would send word for him eventually, get him off that rock and keep him on the books as they say. Whether he meant it or not was yet to be seen and would hinge on anything Phalanx dug up on the name.

Even then, if the sergeant checked out, it would still come down to Gable's gut in the end. Things can be too perfect, too clean like something freshly scrubbed knowing that eyes would soon be upon it. How far could a bluff run? And how deep? People spend whole careers as moles and ghosts, second lives slowly growing and replacing the primary. Playing the role of a put-upon, ethnic biotic until the old, spook nose sniffs something big and tries to latch onto it? The long game with credits being tucked away by the Alliance for when it all paid off. Was that Ahmedov's posting? All he knew was that sergeant still had his whole hand firmly against his chest and that was ten times worse than knowing for sure that he was a lying shit.

Gable and Ward's working relationship had been built on a foundation of deceptions and half-truths. As such it had collapsed under its own weight at the first disagreement between the two of them and now all parties - Phalanx included - were presumably looking at how to cut ties and cover their own asses. Ward would no longer be able to keep Gable's reappearance under wraps and the reports of his death would need to be enforced for the colonel not to have to stand tall before the man. _Which doesn't even touch on the existence of Phalanx and his time in Ward's 'care'? __How happy would generals be to find out he had a geth and told no-one?_

As for the odd couple of man and machine, their continued co-operation rested on what could be found of use within the extracted Blue Suns information. The mission needed its momentum or the two would begin to grate on one another. Mutual benefit was the name of the game, the only true loyalty there ever is.

* * *

><p>Craw thought a long while, long enough for them each to down two more whiskies. Long enough even for a batarian to walk into the joint, realised that it wasn't the best place for him and quick left again. Gable tried to sweeten the proprietor up as he mulled, "I know you don't owe me shit and I will have a lot of heat on me-"<p>

"Get your tongue outta my ass!" Craw slammed his glass back on the bar, "Of course I have a job for you. You're prime merc material; a washed-up old timer with nothing left to lose. But tell me, you come with any other baggage than this pissed off client? Now's the time to come clean if you do."

"Only whatever punks he sends after me," Gable spoke the truth, "I am free and easy. No ties and no partners. The way it should be." _For the meantime at least and forever if Phalanx doesn't keep up its end of the bargain._

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Right, this is going to have to go onto another chapter before we make the jump to the start of ME2, can't rush this thing even though I have something really special planned for the chapter after. I got bored (writer's block) and tried to figure out who would play Gable if there were a film version, settling on a bearded Stephen Lang (_Avatar, Public Enemies, Terra Nova_ and_ Conan) _and then with the continuing writer's block decided that Vincent Regan (_300, Clash of the Titans, Wallander, Troy_ and the upcoming _Lockout_) with an accent would be Sergeant Bitsiraev. It is now who I see in my mind as I am writing.**


	17. Chapter 17

Stars shine bright. After leaving orbit as inconspicuously as possible, Gable and Phalanx assumed the worst. That an Alliance contingent would already be on its way to deal with the situation they had just created and the geth suggested a detour, a slingshot around a star. As the ship spun gently in orbit around the system's central point, the star came into view from the helm and blinded Gable who had to shield himself from the excess of photons. A fast, tight and elliptical orbit, one tenth of an astronomical unit out from the star of about one and a half times the mass of the Earth's own Sun and Gable was at the mercy of Phalanx's calculations regarding the vessel's heat shields and mass effect field. Their path around the star had them accelerating at many magnitudes of Earth gravity - Phalanx had told him the figures but he had scarcely been listening, enough to make any man pass out at best and break bones if careless, the ship's mass effect generator compensated for this and it maintained a more manageable downward force for Gable's joints. What the geth had forgotten to take into account was the sensitivity of the human eye, "Goddamn it! I can't see shit!" The flashbang used by the mercs had been bad enough but the enveloping brightness of the nuclear powerhouse was ten times worse.

"We had thought the helm's screens would have been enough," Gable heard Phalanx's words as an excuse, "They already cut out ninety-five percent of the star's radiation."

"Well ninety five isn't enough!" Gable held his arm over his face and turned from the star, "Close the fucking screens!" Phalanx obeyed and the helm went dark, lit only by the flight consoles and, for Gable at least, with gaudy blotches of forever morphing hues and patterns from his damaged eyes. He felt a cold, strong hand on each shoulder and instinctively flinched away.

"Try to remain still so that we may assess the damage."

The machine's grip was solid but not too tight and Gable took note of their first physical encounter. It could easily have removed his arm entirely from its socket had the need taken it to do so. The fingers placed so precisely around the muscle of the shoulder that it had a firm grip with only the lightest of actual contacts. A disturbingly perfect balance of power and precision. "Look straight ahead." But with no reference point, Gable had his work cut out out merely attempting to keep his eyes still, to not give in to the instinct of tracking the drifting shapes and colours. "You have suffered minor retinal scarring. Some small portions of vision may not fully return."

"Thanks doc," he tentatively moved his shoulders away from the machine's grip that instantly let go at a pre-determined level of pressure. Gable imagined that Phalanx reduced the act of handing out pain as an engineering problem; bending moments, compressive and tensile strength of bones, calculating the force in a swung fist. Taking what for an organic is instinctive and quantifying it into an efficient process.

"You should rest until it repairs itself," Phalanx suggested and Gable only just made out its return to the seat secured to the deck. He left without another word and felt his way to the bunk with one hand running along the arteries of the vessel. _If all we're going to do is wait, I'd rather do it lying down._

The hails to Colonel Ward on Arcturus had so far been ignored, the channel open for hours at the threat of revealing their position to unsavoury types, a beacon floating through space to any with their ears open but it needed to be done. It needed to be over. Gable had started to worry about the fallout of his actions - still not even a day old - and that perhaps they had already cost Ward his career and a console in his office beeped without a soul to answer it. _We should be so lucky. _Another few hours and for all he knew the window of opportunity had already closed on catching up with the sought after corpse. Maybe he should have told Phalanx to start work deciphering the Blue Suns' network information? Was it worth the risk of Ward grabbing it all out of the air the moment communications were opened?

What difference did it make in the end? If the countermeasures failed then Phalanx would be deactivated, what difference would getting his fat fingers on the information create? _He would get the next clue too, wherever they're taking Shepard's body, the only chance you have to stay ahead. And you want to give it away? For what? _To gain the trust of a machine. The paranoia crept back in once more - years and years of trusting nobody but a voice you never saw the mouth of or the written word you never saw a finger touch. Phalanx was going to have to double cross him at some point, when the prize came into view and Shepard himself was in reach. He knew it was going to happen because it was only a matter of who struck first.

He didn't have a clue how he was going to do the deed and for the most part it was pushed to the back of his mind. But every now and again, when the universe fell silent all but for the voice in head he would remember, curse the repetition of the words and have to dig another mental grave to bury them away once more. _Gonna have to kill the machine to kill Shepard._ Kill? Organic term for an inorganic action. Sometimes it seemed like the easiest thing and Gable would imagine putting a pistol to its head and getting it done. All other mental dances ended with his death, surprise was the only thing he had over the machine.

It would have no doubt deduced the best time to cut Gable loose and wouldn't make its move until such as he had outlived his usefulness. He on the other hand had the wonderful, non-synthetic trait of being reckless, idiotic and erratic. No machine would jump before being pushed, would it? Though Gable's methods and mannerisms were already rubbing off, being assimilated by the programs. Would this aspect be taken too if consensus showed that an 'erratic', pre-emptive strike would be better for completion of their directive? _Always thought doing something stupid would be the death of me_. The joke was only for him but he still couldn't laugh.

In those hours before Colonel Ward finally opened communications Gable couldn't separate his dreams from being awake, slipping between the two so seamlessly on the hard cot. His temporary semi-blindness followed him, giving the already vivid dreams of Shepard and death an almost otherworldly hues of people and red. It wasn't until a voice came groaning through the very hull in one dream and continued in the conscious world too that Gable knew the time had come, "Captain Gable. Colonel Ward has opened communications, we have set up the holographic projector in the medbay."

_Sink or swim._

His vision still somewhat blurred and not entirely awake, Gable entered the medbay and was met by a very passive-aggressive hologram. "Captain I have been having a little trouble getting in contact with you since our last chat."

"A problem with our comms channel," Gable lifted his old bones onto the medical slab and settled into verbal combat with a pacing visualisation of the colonel, "Phalanx seems to have go it all five by five now." The 'sir' which had littered their early conversations has been dropped completely. _Force him into the real meat of the issue. Play along but give him nothing to work with_. Memories of the academy came to him then, woken from his bunk in the night and dragged away in a shuttle cab to fuck knows where. The students would wait and prepare, but they couldn't ready themselves for what eventually came.

Brought in soldiers from the outside to work them over, real N7s probably to get their money's worth hazing the new recruits. Name, rank and number. Name, rank and number. Over and over until you started to question if _that_ was even true. They only stopped short of actual torture. Stress positions, white noise for what seemed forever, threats against your family and worse threatened against any significant other - one recruit broke an instructor's tooth after a torrent of despicable things were mentioned in relation to his new fiancé. He snapped, they all did eventually. The would-be interrogators had all the time in the world and the recruit has no concept of it passing.

That was Gable's eventual undoing in his own bout against the brought-in marines. He could ignore the time factor and with that, everything else was easy. He survived the light beatings with good humour and even suggested worse stress positions than they did for him. Thought he was a real badass, going to be the first to go the distance and have the interrogators end it officially, shake his hand and all that. Until they brought in a clock and left him with it for hours on end to get a hang on how time was flowing in the small, concrete room. He would then be blindfolded with the white noise or the baby's cries - the interrogator's personal favourite - three or four hours this would last but they would change the clock so that it seemed as though only an hour or two had passed. Rinse and repeat. After the third cycle Gable lost it and everything else slipped, even the beatings would get to him. Three days he lasted in all - second in his class - and the lesson remained; any man can be broken, you just have to see what he hides behind when things get bad and take it from him.

What followed between Ward and Gable could not have been further from the interrogation training at the academy. No blows were handed out, not a clock on the walls and no upperhand for the colonel asking the questions or so Gable quietly prayed to a being had no belief in. It was all very pleasant at first, kind words and gentle questions pregnant with anger. The mission? It's all going swimmingly, recently picked up a fresh lead. Calm as you like but not an inch was given the colonel's way and for his part Ward refused to take the bait, preferring gentle prods. Little mentions of an event involving the Blue Suns, a subtle threat with, "We've sent a ship to meet with them and sort this whole mess out." _We're taking a detour round a fucking star in case of that very situation._ But Gable quickly reigned himself back in, the two men were playing the same game with each other even if he was certain he held all the aces. Near-certain. Fairly certain.

It was all a case of who got bored first and just laid it out there to put an end to the whole thing. Gable played dumb in an effort to infuriate Ward with mundane questions he already knew the answers too. Do they know who attacked the Blue Suns? A group or a lone operative? What they saying the damage was? Who's in command of the base there? The first three were answered with half-veiled boredom, the last with a hideous smirk across the fat hologram's face and no small amount of triumphant relish, "I didn't say anything about a base."

_Gotcha. _Gable pretended to backtrack, feigned that he had made a mistake in asking such a question at all, "It's just why else would the Alliance bother sending a ship out there unless there was something to protect?"

"Cut the crap, Gable," Ward pointed an accusatory fat finger, "I know you were there. I got Brethson spreading your name all over Arcturus thanks to your stunt!" It didn't matter if what he said was true or not, the anger was there and that was all Gable needed. He pushed himself wearily off the slab and shrugged.

"It was worth it."

"To get what?"

The lynchpin, it all came down to this and though he knew it Gable remained calm in his delivery, "Surely your connection with the machine should tell you all you need to know." The droop in the colonel's features said everything that the flapping and posturing attempted so hard to hide. The code had seemingly worked and Gable ignored the blubbering threats to say, "Phalanx, begin decrypting." And yet the gamble remained but Gable's gut told him that Ward wasn't just playing him along.

"Yes Captain Gable," the monotone almost humorous given the occasion of having regained its freedom.

"You're a dead man, Gable!" Ward blustered and puffed his nostrils, "You hear me? You've pushed the wrong man too far! I'm going to have so many spooks and scalphunters after you that you won't be able to trust your own fucking... your own..."

"My own?" But Ward signed off before he thought of an interesting finish to the threat. A victory and yet a hollow one. For throughout all of their back and forth, their lures and false smiles there had been no mention of Sergeant Bitsiraev. Gable was once again left in two minds about the man and his motives, worried still that Ward had allowed him this victory knowing that their own small war was far from over. And worse still, that Ahmedov was the colonel's wild card.

"Captain Gable, we are now around the star and thrusters will be engaged for trajectory toward the relay," Phalanx added a warning, "There may be some slight discomfort as the mass effect field compensates."

"Yeah," Gable almost laughed, "You're welcome."

The victory and restrained celebration, hollow as it was, did not last long - not even as far as the system's mass relay. With the course laid in, Phalanx was able to put almost all of its processing power into decrypting the Blue Suns network and sifting through the multitude of information in contained, several petabytes in all. Enough information to put them on top of the merc's operations for a long time but the pair only needed one piece of information. One name, one planet, anything that might move them further on in their shared endeavour. When Phalanx told him, Gable assumed it was a joke. Or at the very least it was a joke by the Blue Suns themselves as to the location of the drop-off. But after cross-referencing the vessel logs found on Omega with the network and with the name Shepard (no need to be subtle on a private network it would seem), the same planet came up again and again. Alingon.

A fist was thrust against the hull and Gable's foot kicked out at anything that would give way to it. A dead end whichever way he looked at it. "We should follow the lead regardless," Phalanx suggested.

"Oh sure," Gable was sardonic in his reply, "You've got all the time in the fucking world. I've got a measly human lifetime and it will take more than that to search a rock like that. You can't scan anything for shit. We can't communicate for shit. And who even knows if that magnetic core won't fuck with you more than we know? Chances are it's not even where they went, there's nothing there. Place is dead. And I ain't scouring it inch by inch for the rest of my days. We'll have better luck waiting for a new lead than following this one!" His fist struck the wall several more times in anger. What now?

"We suggest that we work separately." _At least he didn't kill me._

"But we were just getting to know each other, can I have that seat?" Phalanx lifted itself from the helm and allowed Gable to collapse into it, "I've already been through one divorce."

"Our suggestion is a temporary separation."

"I've heard that one as well." Gable hovered a hand in front of his face, tested the healing eyes and there it was, a blind spot, a portion of his finger disappeared and shot back into view as it moved. Old, tired, partially blind and still flying across the galaxy like he was a fresh N7 graduate. Maybe if he waited long enough, it would be a fair fight between himself and Shepard.

* * *

><p>Craw and Gable eventually became very, very drunk to celebrate their partnership and his new vocation as an actual mercenary as opposed to a military-sponsored killer. Millions of Systems Alliance credits invested in his training, his career and he was to become a common thug for hire. But they pushed him into it or so he told himself. By hanging him out to dry, by Ward hauling him back in with promises the colonel couldn't keep. Craw was happy to take him, pleased even. For years he had been trying to get Gable to moonlight for him when off-duty, even if it was just to run errands or provide a little muscle in the room to make a client nervous. So he jumped at the chance to take him on board.<p>

"A man-" a stifled belch, "-like you I got great need of. I gots this small operation going on out in the Nemean Abyss, Cartagena Station or something. Place is almost empty and a real good shithole to lie low in. You'd be in charge of fifteen, maybe twenty guys and only have to put up with five of them at any one time. They'll come for orders and get the hell outta Dodge straight after."

"What aren't you telling me?" Turned out they were a collection of shitheads, losers and needed whipped into shape. Who better? Don't like 'em? Fire 'em, get some better guys and start earning some credits for the both of them. Could turn out good for them both, you know?

"Yeah, I know," Gable went to take a drink but found his glass empty and made a confused face, "Oh hey, before I- before I forget. I got a present for you. Was gonna hold onto it in case you tried to play hardball and wouldn't let me in." Gable produced his datapad and placed it on the bar. "I have gots me, in my very own personal possession," the booze seemed to force him deeper into his forgotten vocabulary and he said the next part in a forced, drunken whisper, "An entire Blue Suns' private network for you to read at your leisure."

Craw broke into heavy and low drunken giggles, "That was _you_?"

"What was me?"

"Is that what you stole from the client? Cos I don't wanna be on the wrong side of a guy trying to get _that _back."

"No no no no no," Gable pointed to his empty glass and Craw finished off the bottle so that some dribbled from the rim of the glass, overflowing, "What I took from him?" Craw was drawn in. "Worth far, far more than that."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I had about 1000 words of useless dialogue between Ward and Gable that read like the script of a bad police drama, figured it would be better as it is now written. Right, now we jump to the events of ME2 or... begin to. If the last couple of chapters have taught me anything it's that I don't have to rush anything, I can mention ideas and thoughts and worries that won't be answered for a while... if at all. I might take a week or two off from writing - this story at least - and figure out exactly where this thing is going. Because it _is_ going somewhere, as for how we get there is a different matter.**

**Thanks to my two die-hard reviewers who have stuck with me this far and to the others who have favourited and got this word heap on alert. And to all the lurkers... yeah, you! One thousand hits in January, which for an M-rated story based on an OC with only mentions of - and abuse aimed at - the main characters is pretty good going.**

**Edit: Made a slight change to the first paragraph in order to make it more obvious that the beginning of this chapter is a continuation of the flashback from the previous one.**


	18. Chapter 18

**"Three hundred million guns a' loadin', Satan cries fair game."**

**Creedence Clearwater Revival - Run Through The Jungle**

* * *

><p>"They talk endlessly of results and gains. Communications and hails constantly wanting to know what I found out and what the results of the mission were. That's the job, to get results on their behalf and I accepted that long ago. But then the nerve of these bastards to question my motives and means. They dissected the mission on Feros, same as they did for Noveria, and they decide what I did wrong. They tell me the colonists didn't have to be harmed, that I have created for them an unnecessary mess to clean up. Pompous, useless. Even with the Spectre status I remain at the mercy of Alliance interference, being held to account by those who no longer give me orders.<p>

"You send a man like me after something and I'll go with all my being. It's duty that sends me and drives me. Some brainwashed colonist tries to stand in the way of duty? I wonder what they call me now, those POGs out there who watch the news and brand me what they will. 'Butcher' just won't go away, won't let me forget it. It hurt from them but more from the other men. It's all hindsight and meddling from eyes that didn't see. I get the results, they might have to sell them but I have to live with them. Those dead colonists mean more to me than some pleb on Terra watching the news, judging me a monster. I'm a soldier and I do what I am told.

"Consequences are for the politicians, for the birds. Don't like it? Send someone else after Saren, see if I care. I do all this for them, so that they are free to brand me a monster. Scratch that, I've lost my train of thought. It's gone. Why do you get me to do this? It doesn't help to talk about these things. No, it doesn't. I think you should leave. Get out. Out! Shit, is this thing still... End recording."

Gable had been listening so intently to the voice, the ramblings of man pushed into an unenviable position, that he had stopped mid-pull up and hung by tensed arms for a moment in the fresh silence. _All superfluous bullshit and delusions of eloquence. _The make-shift office was furnished was datapads and gym equipment, he would joke to himself that it was his personal Hotel Kilo and that stepping outside for too long would only end in his death. His desk had only three empty whisky bottles by way of stationary and the room was lit by the artificial sky of the Cartagena Station's interior, filtered in bands through the long window's blinds.

His voice panted, "Replay." And he resumed the slow rhythmic rise and fall of his body against the bar suspended in the doorframe of an unused, walk-in wardrobe.

They hated him before he even got there and for almost half of the seventeen men on the payroll when Gable arrived, those feelings would remain. The way he had come in and taken over had really rubbed some of them the wrong way and those who were cut first had the shortest memories. They quickly forgot that it had been a full four months since his first arrival on Cartagena Station and the first merc to be fired from the roster. The old man wasn't even given the benefit of the doubt and the rumours of a mass shake up were spread to the men across the galaxy from the second the communication from Craw arrived. Outwards from the Abyss like Chinese whispers. The mostly ex-Alliance crew feared the worst and reacted to his prophecised arrival as though he were Death incarnate. After all, who the hell was this guy? We were doing just fine without somebody to boss us around. We get work and we get results. What more could Craw possibly want? Money, of course. He wants to squeeze every last credit out of us.

Things only got worse when they weren't told anything about who their new boss was. Shit, would this guy even be human? Bigotry keeps up with the times, with a small buffer between it and forward thinking of course. Racism between humans was all but forgotten in favour of prejudice between alien races. Grunts especially like to keep their finger on the pulse of shameless, unadulterated bigotry and the mercs were more than vocal in their disgust at the idea of working under anybody other than a fellow human. So fast and loose did the 'truth' travel across their own small network that one mercenary came back from a job certain that he was now working for a turian. When word of this got to Craw on Omega he had to send reassurances that the man he was sending was human and ex-Alliance. Just enough to keep the cogs turning in the sewing circle.

Officer? Enlisted? He's gotta be an officer, they wouldn't send some ex-sergeant to be in a charge of us. It was never-ending. The older, more experienced mercs were able to wait without succumbing to wild speculation and continued on with the work unabated. The more green the merc the greater the chance he would lament the arrival of an officer, "Had enough of that shit in my military career for it to spill over into this one too." It was four weeks of this between being warned of the new boss' posting and his eventual arrival.

A handful of mercs lounged within the run-down building, once a hotel with its original owners scared away by frequent pirate attacks. They sat in filthy, frayed chairs in what had been the lobby reading or playing cards. One told him he was lost and should look somewhere else for a place to stay. They saw a passed it, greying man with worn, tired armour straining against an expanded waistline. Dumbstruck they watched as the stranger strode his way around them and toward the rooms at the back, disappeared out of their sight before it clicked with them. "That's him? That's who we've been worrying about?" One man laughed until they heard the crashes and bangs from the room furthest into the establishment. The laughing merc's room had been occupied and when he asked where he should put his belongings instead, the first words they heard from their new boss were, "Anywhere but in my fucking office." Door slammed. The introduction did little to end the men's concerns about his posting with them.

For the first while the mercs' fears were shown to be all nerves and hot air, things scarcely seemed to change. All their new boss seemed to want was to be some sort of operational supervisor, the jobs came and went through him - more often than not from Craw on Omega - and he would keep his mouth shut on how he thought they should go about it. Others would return from jobs or downtime already under way expecting the worst to find the scuttlebutt had been just that. Some calmed down and mellowed out, slipping back into how the place ran before the old man's trumped-up arrival and certain that life would remain much the same as it had been. A split emerged amongst them, as it had with the rumours, between the more experienced mercs and their naive colleagues.

They would try and explain. You don't see it? Each and every one was getting jobs, complicated jobs. He holds them, they would mutter into their drinks, holds the good work for the guys coming back in. Tests them. When was the last time you heard from the clients directly? Old man's sizing us up before he brings down the axe. And he will, a hand brought down on the table as a drunken, visual example, he will.

There was only rule in those early days, the interim before Gable did bring down the axe, never enter his office. He had been so quiet and relaxed on everything else that the old man's insistence on this one, lonesome rule was taken very seriously. They would hear voices sometimes floating down the corridor from his room and knew he would emerge in the foulest of moods. Screw him, they would blurt to each other after pregnant silences, bust on in there and see what he's up to. But none of them ever found the gumption and left the mysterious old man to his self-imposed solitude. Each time they saw him, when their watchman would leave the confines of his prison cell and when they weren't off station on work, the belly had gotten that little more toned and the beard that little bit longer. Until eventually, "It's stopped growing altogether!"

"Trims it you moron." And the small group would laugh at the youngest member over their dominoes or cards or drinks. If it ever struck them why a man who was sent to the Abyss and refused to give his name decided to grow and maintain a full beard, they didn't say it out loud. None of them became a mercenary for the shits and giggles, it's either for the money - "Which isn't all that great," muttered against that argument - or you have things to hide from.

Seventeen mercs on the payroll when he took over, seventeen remained four months later when the dissent and backyard rumblings of the posting had died down. So much for the axe being brought down, was the general consensus even from most of those who had put forth the idea. "Weirkertsch!" the old man barked from his lonely wing of the castle. He was tall, blonde and well built. A hit with the ladies on Cartagena but as shy with them as though he were back to half his thirty years. He stood up with a shrug at the others and was in that 'office' with the boss for a full two hours behind the locked door.

When he came back out, he gathered what few belongings wouldn't tie him down and left without so much as a word, bag over his shoulder and ignoring the others' pleas for answers. That was the end of the mercs' easy life on Cartagena. "That's the first and he was the best of us. Old man's making a point, swingin' his dick about and letting us know that anybody could be next."

Another three weeks, seventeen had become ten. The other six were not given the same personal courtesy as the first. The old man would materialise in the corridor and give a name. If the name himself were there he was told to leave - nothing more - and if he wasn't whoever was hovering about was told to pass on the word. Only one, the second to be cut, stormed over to confront his executioner and found himself staring down the business end of a pistol for the trouble. He gave no speech to the remaining ten and even when they continued to get work, none were certain of their place in this new set-up. Even when the type of work became more challenging, simple muscle jobs were replaced more and more with intelligence gathering, it wasn't until Weirketsch returned grinning like a teenager who just got his dick wet that they realised all was settled once more. "Done trimming the fat," was all Gable himself said on the matter. The blonde merc however still refused to answer any and all questions from his yammering cohorts with anything other than, "Classified."

* * *

><p>"How long 'til you get off?"<p>

"I got another three hours."

"Drinks this evening?"

"Sure, I'll drop you a line when my shift's over," the border guard held up a palm to the hold the newly formed queue at his recently opened post, "Go easy though? Don't wanna spend the whole night playing catch up with you guys." His friend gave a smile of no promises and slapped him on the back before heading away from border control and into the bowels of Arcturus Station. Once he was gone the guard beckoned the first would-be entrant over. "Welcome to Arcturus, sir. If you would look into the retinal scanner we'll get this show on the road." A marine, armoured and helmet under one arm. He gripped the desk on the other side of the protective plexi-glass with his free hand. _Not even a friendly hello? Rude._ The scan brought up the marine's information, "Sergeant Bi- Bitsir-"

"Bitsiraev, Ahmedov," the cold eyes narrowed.

"My apologies. Is that Russian?" the stern eyes remained. _What is this guy's problem? _The border guard backtracked, "You know what, nevermind. Military business?"

"Here to meet with Colonel Ward," as though there was no time for small talk.

"Are you expected?" Questions, questions, questions. He took this job seriously, couldn't let just anybody in, it's an important job. The same argument in his mind then as with his partner that same morning.

"Yes."

"Would you activate your omni-tool please?" Standard procedure, it would be checked again upon leaving and any discrepancies - additional information, recently uploaded files or software - logged for thoroughness. The marine obliged with the request. "Are you carrying any firearms?" A shake of the well-kept, dark-haired head. He ran other checks whilst asking the usual humdrum line; background, recent activity and service record. "You've been away a long time. Most marines are rotated through once and an Earth cycle or so. Care to explain?"

The wide shoulders made the slightest of shrugs, like a man constantly trying to hold back, "Skyllian Verge. Just when I think I might get away, they find somewhere else I needed."

That checked out, the sergeant had been moved more than a few times in the previous two years but the border guard needed to be thorough, "Can you give me a little detail? Aside from Hotel Kilo and your subsequent posting to X-57, the file is a little light on your postings."

"Not at liberty to discuss such things," a little smile as the marine added, "Sorry."

"No need for an apology, sergeant," he gave a courteous, professional smile in return, "I will just need to verify this with Ward's office."

"Is not problem."

Special forces and gaps in files were nothing new to him, lots of Arcturus' goings on were far above his pay grade, nothing so far to make him remotely suspicious and he placed a call to Ward's office. Whilst he waited for a response, "Do you know when you will be leaving us? Outbound transport already booked?"

"Not yet," the sergeant sounded bored and scratched at the scar on his lip, "Was told colonel would supply transport to leave again."

"That's fine, absolutely fine," each word came out slowly as he entered the appropriate information into his terminal, "One moment. Colonel Ward? Sorry to bother you so late sir but I have a Sergeant Bitsiraev-" noted that his correct pronunciation prompted no change in the marine's expression, "-down here at border security. Just checking you are expecting him sir. Thank you sir, I will send him right up."

Gloved fingers drummed on the desk as he said, "Thank you for your patience, sergeant. If you would be so kind as to bring up your omni-tool one more time, we'll get you stamped in and on your way. Feel free to leave your helmet here if-"

The marine had already started his way into the welcome deck, toward the body scanners, "Is fine, I take with me."

* * *

><p>The intelligence analyst was blonde and shapely, wearing the standard issue body suit with the confidence of a swimwear model. Stood solemnly in the off-white interior of the elevator and awaited her floor, she felt the deceleration and prepared for niceties with lecherous male counterparts. So prepared was she that when the doors slipped open the blonde let out a half-surprised, half-disappointed, "Oh." Fully armoured marines were not an uncommon sight on the station but it was rare to see one taking the elevator up toward the intelligence offices. Rarer still to see armour so worn and faded.<p>

The sort of marines who usually wandered the barracks and haunted the social hub wore bright, unscratched plates and tried to pick up female personnel with tales of daring-do that probably never happened. If she had the information to hand, she would call them on their bullshit wherever possible with her access to operational intelligence. Against protocol but sometimes the only way to make it through the day. "Which floor?" she asked politely.

"Sixty seven," the marine answered as he stepped inside, his accent thick. Sounded Russian she thought. Sixty five and above was special forces intelligence, above her pay-grade and clearance. He gave a queer smirk as she pressed the button for him and her eye was drawn to a scar through one corner of both lips. She thought him a brute but not without a certain quality that attracted her attention. As they started moving again she noticed his smell - no, his scent. Musky, sweaty. Too hot in his armour, why not take it off? Why carry the helmet? _Doesn't trust anyone else to hold onto them for him._ His smell, acrid as it was, made a welcome change from the overpowering aftershaves that she was so often assaulted with.

She felt his eyes on her but when she flicked her hair to steal a glance found that he only stared straight ahead. In profile she could tell his nose had been broken more than once. _What's wrong with me? Acting like a schoolgirl the moment someone interesting appears._ Maybe it was because he was the first man not to make a move on her in some time but she opened her mouth to say- nothing as the elevator came to stop on twenty seventh level. The open doors revealed her original assumption in all its underwhelming glory; a balding, beer-bellied, mid-level analyst with a smile that lied to himself in the morning mirror and eyes that never made their mind up between breasts and face. He swaggered in with the overt confidence of a man with none and put himself between her and the marine, back to the latter. Cheap cologne stung her eyes and seemed to tickle her throat but she smiled, courteous to the last.

"Angela," his attempts to sound charming offended her ears, "Still slumming it on the thirties? Listening to flagged communications between civvies, hoping to catch something, _anything _that might lift you into actual military intelligence?" The tiny, sunken eyes darted to her chest and back up again. She felt exposed.

"It's just as important as any other work here," she sounded to small in her own ears. She wanted desperately for the marine to step in but couldn't see him for receding hairline and double chin.

"I said I could put in a good word for you, get you a promotion into the forties. If you-" he forced a small cough and the way he lifted his eyebrows made her want to retch.

"And I told you no."

"Come on," a pathetic plea, "What's one night?"

"The lady said no." The voice surprised both of them and the lecher turned to the marine, fuming.

"What did you say, grunt?"

"You hear just fine."

"The girl and myself were having a little chat, no need for your to bring your pair of brain cells into it."

"I have idea," the marine took his eyes away from the door for the first time to look at him, "We stand in silence and go to floors." _Is he trying to help me or does he just want some peace and quiet?_

"I have a better one," the analyst shoved a finger into the chest plate and the marine looked down to watch it make contact, "The babykiller keeps his mouth shut while the grown-ups are talking." Turned his back to him and looked at her with a victorious grin on his shiny face, as though he was her hero and she was to be eternally grateful.

She knew this would only get worse, that the soldier wouldn't allow their confrontation to end that way. There was to be no escalation and what occurred instead was the marine simply skipped to end, perhaps he just didn't have the time to waste. She was almost ready to thank him for speaking up on her behalf but assure him she could handle the advances herself. Used to them after all. She wasn't so much as given the opportunity and as she saw the helmet drop to the rough carpet there was scarcely time for her to shout, "Wait! Stop!" Though it all happened regardless.

The face between them that had been so confident warped to blind panic as a gloved hand grabbed him by the neck and forced his head against the rear wall. Holding it firmly in place, the marine moved in close and whispered to the man so she could hear nothing but his rolling accent, no words, but the face - his eyes - said it all. She yelped, hand jerking to cover it, as the brute brought his knee up squarely in the man's crotch and he doubled over with a jump-start groan. Shoved again with a quick boot to the shin he fell to the floor, head by her feet and babbling with newly-found apologies. She scarcely heard him, frozen to the spot by fear and only able to watch as the marine swung a foot into the man's gut again and again, one hand on the rear wall for balance. Expressionless.

Hoping that he wouldn't lash out against her in a wild overreaction, she moved between them, "Stop! Oh please! _Look _at him!" The last part was as much for herself as the marine and she looked at the quivering analyst, locked tight in the foetal position and he coughed up a little glob of blood as though on cue. It was in panic she pressed the button for thirty-eight, knowing a medical station was somewhere on that level.

Turning her back to the unflinching assailant, she knelt and cradled the head of her harasser. She all but prayed for the doors to open as the marine calmly, slowly picked up his helmet. "Can you stand?" she asked and held back tears. With some help he could though remained half bent over in pain. She didn't realise she had been holding her breath until the doors opened and she let it go once more. Looking nowhere but ahead, she mirrored the laboured, painful steps of the injured colleague and heard the thick accent from behind he said one word to sum his take on the whole, violent scenario, "Bitch."

* * *

><p>Ward paced his office trying to awaken his legs after hours of sitting at his desk, almost a year of sitting at his desk. Lucky not to have faced court-martial after the mess at Hotel Kilo, that's what he had been told, lucky not to lose your rank and lucky to still be working on deniable operations. Though he knew luck had very little to do with it, he had followed orders and the still anonymous general who had sent him on Shepard's trail graciously let Ward take the fall. A head had to roll for what had happened and once Gable's name had done the rounds he knew the buck would stop with him. Damage control was his major concern and any mention of a geth working with Gable had to be buried so deep that anyone piecing it together would dismiss it as wild rumour. A rogue operative he could answer for, take the hit and roll over. Questions of why he had a prototype geth in his possession and allowed it to be let loose without mentioning it to another soul were slightly harder. To put it lightly.<p>

Even in his new capacity as a liaison officer for lesser operations - a go between for the higher ups to understand what was happening in the Alliance's darker personnel corners - Ward still had some amount of clout and had spent his time cleaning house and covering his ass. Gable had sucker punched him with regards to the remote connection on Phalanx, which would have been a manageable obstacle on its own but in conjunction with the relations nightmare that was Hotel Kilo it became an unwinnable war on two fronts.

Ward knew Gable couldn't appreciate the gravity of the incident he had a hand in. Only a grunt after all, no matter how much training they throw at them. Hotel Kilo was representative of the System Alliance's "tough stance" on mercenary operations. It was discussed in the press as a sprawling complex on the very front line in the war against organised, interstellar piracy. So widely was this view of the base taken as fact amongst the public that even generals who should have known better - especially those who had been there and seen the place with their own eyes - ended up wondering if they had missed something. The response to the threat of retaliation from the Blue Suns was based not on what Hotel Kilo actually was but instead what everybody _thought_it was. Which left sixteen marines wondering why the hell three cruisers came to their rescue.

Ward was on one and when he discovered Gable was already long gone, switched efforts to instead saving his career in the long term. Relieved to discover that Captain Brethson considered the geth to be dead and made a big enough deal of that to make him believe it was interesting enough. The base's comms operator was convinced he had picked up vocals between Gable and another on his abandoned vessel. Ward confiding in him a bullshit story of a state of the art AI was enough to shut him up.

Sergeant Bitsiraev on the other hand was an entirely different ball game. Ward had watched an recording of his initial questioning and found it almost comical. The sergeant pulled the strings throughout, led his interrogator down the garden path like a child and would give just enough to whet the appetite before clamming up tight. Ward then grilled the sergeant himself anonymously from another room, voice scrambled and represented to the sergeant as a faceless hologram. He got the same old song and dance, half answers and lies he wanted to hear but had to ignore. However, he squeezed enough information out of him to know that Bitsiraev had been with Gable at the base even if he couldn't prove it. Though he didn't need to.

Officially the sergeant had aided and abetted a rogue operative - even though he had gone much further than that - and his punishment was deemed to be yet another re-posting. This time forced to be part of security at the X-57 Asteroid project, back on track after being saved from total destruction by Shepard himself. The posting was carried out through no small part on Ward's recommendation. And then, almost a year later Ward was given a second shot at getting Bitsiraev on side. This time face to face in Ward's own office.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: The first half of two chapter catch up with ME2. A change of character perspective is a lovely thing, my first major experience of it was with 'MGS2: Sons of Liberty' and Raiden. As much as people hate his whining and constant, useless introspection Raiden provides a valuable service in making Snake seem even cooler and easier to hero worship. I knew I couldn't keep the story running with nothing but Gable's POV and in order to widen the scope further, we would have to see things from Ward's perspective. A few of the mercs will become secondary characters and the others shall remain faceless and probably nameless. Cartagena Station is where Jacob and Miranda meet, for those unfamiliar with 'Mass Effect Galaxy'.**


	19. Chapter 19

"I can smoke, sir?" Sergeant Bitsiraev spoke with the same blunt confidence in Ward's office as he had in custody. The colonel pushed an ashtray across his desk that doubled as an invitation to pull up the seat on the other side of it. The sergeant's response came in his native tongue and he plonked his frame down in the chair and placed his helmet on the floor beside it. The easiest way to question someone is first to put them at unease and the way he fell into it made Ward think if the sergeant had ever used a chair before in his life, without somehow being confined to it before hand. He fidgeted and squirmed, trying to find that sweet spot but failed. Ward allowed him to get 'comfortable' before he started. Comfort in the end was the marine leant forward, elbow on each knee.

Ward opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted, "You have light, sir?" With a drawn-out sigh, Ward pulled open a drawer and placed his antique lighter on the the sergeant's side of the desk. It was taken with a smile and Ward once again waited before speaking.

"You can drop the sir, no need to stand on ceremony. Do you-" but was interrupted yet again.

"Haven't had cigarette in almost a year," the sergeant took his first drag and looked at the smoke between his fingertips with a crooked little smile on his harsh mouth. _Don't rise to it, he's just trying to wind me up._ How many times had this marine been questioned and interrogated to take the process in such light-hearted stride?

Ward finally spoke as the sergeant took a second draw so he couldn't be interrupted a third time, "Not many places to smoke on an asteroid, I imagine."

The reply came with a wafting, blue-grey haze, "We told if we wanted cigarette we had to go outside."

"How was your time there? Aside from the smoking rule."

"Boring," a cock of the head as Ahmedov looked at him, through him, "One pirate attack in eleven months and pretty sure they were lost. Blasted their ship before it get within ten thousand clicks. Nice light show."

"You worked security, must have had something else to occupy yourself," Ward opened with gentle pushes, hoping he would slip up on some tiny detail that could be exploited.

"I break up fights mostly," Ahmedov then added with a look that said he was not kidding, "Start one or two."

"How was it compared to Hotel Kilo?" Ward tried to steer the conversation toward Gable.

"I prefer Hotel Kilo. At least I could walk about, do recon and the rest," he muttered, "On asteroid I can only shoot at rocks and listen to geologist tell me about rocks. Or worse when they just talk about the same shit over and over."

"Oh?"

"Shepard."

"He did save the whole development from destruction."

"So I hear," the sergeant was evidently restless, "So why am I here?"

"Your name came up on a list of personnel up for reassignment," Ward leaned back in his large, leather chair, "I read your file and thought you could be useful to me. Now I know we've never met before but-"

"We meet before."

"If we have, I don't-" this flustered Ward, half of his plan was allowing the sergeant to think he was helping him back into the fold, the same game he had played with Gable. _And look how well that turned out._

"You question me after Hotel Kilo, can't hide temp of your voice. You always stop for breathe between words," the sergeant made no attempt to hide the level of smarm at catching Ward out, "You are a lot fatter than hologram. Wouldn't surprise me if getting sent to asteroid was your idea."

Ward knew a change of tact was needed and came clean, "It was."

"Always same with special forces," Ahmedov painted an indecipherable picture with a trail of smoke from his moving hand, "Never just ask, rather waste year of both our lives _then_ ask. Why?"

"Plausible deniability," Ward explained, "I needed you to have a believable reason not to work for- what is it?" He noticed the sergeant wasn't listening, staring passed the expensive desk, Ward himself and out of the window.

"Sorry, was watching ship pass." The words made Ward remember something his Father had once told him; distraction is most deadly in dangerous men. "Do they always pass by here?"

"One of the reasons I chose this office," Ward turned far more calm for a minute, almost serene, "Reminds me of Earth, lived near a port growing up. Mother always complained about the noise. No noise out here."

"None at all." _He must know how threatening he makes everything sound. Plays on it for his own amusement._

"As I was saying," Ward shook his head as though it would force the childhood out of his brain, "A believable reason for you not to work for me." Always a fine balance, don't go far enough and the cover story is less than useless, gives the game away. Push a man too far, perhaps keep him cooped up on an asteroid for the best chunk of a year, and maybe he actually doesn't want to work for you afterwards. It happened before, Ward had invested a lot of time, money and influence into a spook's cover story only to break him and curse himself as the agent fell off the radar. Went dark. In Sergeant Bitsiraev's case it was the former, the man was used to being moved around, place to place to cover up for misdeeds and downtime. Laying low until all blew over. Ward hadn't been lying about having checked his file and even the censored version made for interesting reading. But with all the black bars removed? 'Appropriate force' was seemingly an unknown term and the sergeant had cost the Alliance millions in clean-up costs, literal and political.

"And what will I be doing?"

"I require you to kill Sean Gable, whom you met and aided at Hotel Kilo," Ward heard himself switch to such formal language and nearly laughed at himself, "And reacquire something that was taken from me."

"The geth," though it sounded more like 'gith' from the sergeant's scarred lips.

"You've taken down geth before, it's safe to presume."

"So it _was _operational," Bitsiraev's face brightened somewhat, finally something that he didn't know already, "And yes, I kill geth. At distance, with element of surprise."

"How long were you with Gable?" Ward remembered that there was a recording being made of their conversation, he wanted a confession for the purposes of collateral and future blackmail.

"A few hours," out came the much repeated lie, "As long as it took me to reach base. Cut him loose and headed back."

"You and I both know that's bullshit," Ward leaned forward once more, elbows on the desk, "I've come clean with you about Gable, about the geth-" _Be sure and edit those sections out of the recording later_. "-How about you do me that same courtesy?" He got nothing in return but a smile and the last draw on a cigarette, the only movement from the marine was to stub it out in the ashtray on the desk. "The Blue Suns were very helpful, allowed us full access to the scene so as to investigate the damage." _What other choice did they have with three frigate-sized vessels bearing down on them? _"Our guys discovered read outs that pointed to biotics being used at the scene. Now, Gable has no biotic abilities and is wary of those who do."

The sergeant was sardonic, mocking, "And because I am only biotic in galaxy, it must have been me."

He wasn't going to budge and threats of force were worthless, "What did you make of him?"

"He's old, slow."

"Did he tell you his mission?"

"No."

"Do you know where he went?"

"No."

"What do you think he's doing?"

"Old guys like him? Stubborn like mule. I think he will still follow mission to end, even if end is his. No soldier wants to die as useless old man." Which couldn't have been farther from the truth in Ward's experience and opinion. The majority of frontline soldiers, after witnessing death and destruction on such a scale, wanted nothing more than to die an old man in their beds. Sergeant Bitsiraev though was an exception, a man who chased death willingly and Ward believed him on the subject of Gable's motives. _The old man wants to leave behind a legacy, to be the man who killed Shepard or died trying._ How stubborn was he though?

The Alliance had all but given up on the idea of Shepard being alive and even the sternest supporters of it grew quieter with every second. Even Gable himself, who had loomed so large in secret memos that zipped around Arcturus in the wake of the Hotel Kilo was scarcely cared about any longer. Ward had been told more than once to let it go and if it hadn't been for Phalanx, the political shitstorm revelation of its existence would create, he would have. A ghost after a ghost after a ghost. It was never ending.

Ward came back from his thoughts to find the sergeant checking his omni-tool, "Can we hurry this up?" And the cold eyes glanced passed him once more, at another departing vessel no doubt. A second glance and a third made Ward curious enough to turn in his chair. A junk vessel hung on nothing two hundred feet from the window. Lights and engines off and its grey hull picked out by the reflected glow of the station contrasted against the endless black wallpaper that was dotted with stars as Ward's eyes adjusted.

"What's it doing?" Bitsiraev's voice had moved and Ward knew he was on his feet.

"Broken down," he shrugged and turned his head as the marine came over to the window, "Happens sometimes. This time of night it might be there for hours."

"You don't think is strange?"

"No, you're being paranoid."

"No," the sergeant put a hand on the headrest of Ward's chair, "Just checking if you are."

Ward was too comfortable. Too comfortable in his surroundings, the safety of Arcturus. The last line of human defence, population of thousands. He knew nobody could touch him there, surely nobody would so much as try? Comfortable too with the situation and the feeling of control, he knew the sergeant would have little choice but to accept his proposal after a year out of the game. But it was the far more literal comfort of Ward relaxing in his chair that was exploited first and forced the others to crumble in its wake. He had leant too far back and instead of preventing it, Ward's excessive bulk aided Bitsiraev in toppling the chair backwards by hauling it from the headrest.

Ward flopped from the chair away from the sergeant and remembered the the side-arm in his desk. Righting himself to one side, propped to a crouch by one arm he looked to find the drawer open and Bitsiraev with the pistol in hand. He felt sick as the world of subterfuge and double-crosses he had spent so long pulling the strings of came back to bite him in the ass. His scared voice muttered out a question he already knew the answer to, "How did you know that was in there?"

No reply but a knowing smile as he walked back around the desk, putting a hand on its corner to find if it could be moved. With the pistol trained on Ward and ignoring every protest, threat and terrified question from the colonel cowering in a corner by the window, the door was locked from the inside and scrambled by way of omni-tool. Ward let out a girlish yelp as two shots were popped into the window above and beside him, absorbed my the plexi-glass into snowflakes of cracks and creases.

"Bulletproof and besides, a mass field outside would prevent decompression," Ward hyperventilated, his collar had become so tight, strangled him, "What is this? Holding me ransom? Suicide mission to make a point?" Still ignored as the sergeant came back to the desk once more.

"Turn desk around and push against window!" Ward didn't move but another snowflake in the glass made him submit to the order. He wished out loud he had chosen a lighter desk and the sergeant chuckled at this, "Trust me, you won't."

"What now?" Ward panted, back against the drawers on one side of his desk.

"You answer questions."

_All this just for an interrogation? _"Security will be here in minutes, how do you expect to come out of this as anything other than a corpse?" the colonel was furious, spittle flying from his mouth with his question. He couldn't put it together, the adrenaline and fear stopped his mind from making a steady thought process, but a sound reached his ears and the same sound repeating itself told him everything he didn't want to know. A dull, reverberated thud that could have been anything but the repeat was closer, behind his head and Ward knew it was boots coming into magnetic contact with the outer hull of the station.

"No," Ward whispered, almost sobbing and repeated the word over and over, increasing to a tearful cry. Until Ahmedov cut him off.

"Yes." Everything clicked into horrifying place. The accomplices outside, the 'broken down' ship waiting out there across two hundred feet of vacuum and the helmet innocently sitting on the floor. His mind flapped so wildly he almost missed the sergeant's questions, "Any surgery lately? Stitches? Open wounds? Hernia?" Ward sat speechless, unable to tell if he didn't know the answer or simply couldn't find the words. "Is important colonel, I don't need guts popping out. So?"

"N- n- no." _Oh shit, oh fuck. He's going to blow the window. Goons outside probably disabling the mass field._ They could only be deactivated from the outside for means of maintenance. _Wait! _Ward pleaded with his brain wave, "It won't work with us inside! The field won't deactivate."

"We have third party, made us program to override safety protocols. You may know the authors," Ahmedov switched attentions to his helmet on the floor and saw Ward eye the pistol. _He has to put it down somewhere to get the helmet on. _A devilish grin split across the stern features as the marine turned his hips to reveal the holster and Ward slumped. "You have bad cold? Blocked sinuses? Ears?" Ward shook his head like a disobedient child forced to answer for a misdeed. "Good, this will be easy then."

With that he put on and secured the helmet, its thin visor and overlapping plate managed the seemingly impossible, making Sergeant Bitsiraev more intimidating to the eye. Ward heard him talk to his colleagues outside, the voice tinny from within the helmet, "Ready? Well bang on window when done," a pause followed by static laughter, "He scared shitless of course. He big yes, but won't matter out there." He had never felt to helpless, so small as three would-be kidnappers laughed at his expense. Things went from bad to worse as Ahmedov pointed out, "Fucking hell, he has pissed pants." In panic Ward hadn't noticed but seeping warmth came to him now, humiliation complete, sat spread-eagled against his own, real-oak desk.

"No we take him, pissed pants or not," the helmet stared into Ward's tearful eyes and perhaps held more remorse than the face behind it, "Right, here's what happens; you hide under desk, I blow window, you pass out and we get you to ship before you die. Easy, no?"

Wild, pleaded bargaining, "Whatever Gable's giving you, I'll triple it! I'll square it all away with the higher ups, we'll pretend this didn't happen! Just, don't. Don't!"

Ignored. "There may be a little swelling, though a fat guy like you have no problems there. Lung damage too, but we minimise that if you don't hold breath," Ahmedov hadn't even bothered to unholster the pistol again, Ward noticed and only emphasised how little of a threat he now was, "Also-" But he was cut off by soft, dampened thuds on the window and Ward strained his neck over the desk to see a palm striking the outside, fractured and cloned by cracks in the glass, "Right, right. Keep clear and move in when done."

Ahmedov's steady hand and calm attitude only made Ward more terrified in contrast, there was no going back and no chance of bribing him. Not through lack of cash but because Gable had won him over with the greatest of prizes; the chance to infiltrate Arcturus Station and kidnap a colonel from his office, a chance for his name to be whispered in reverence and fear. Even if the truth of the event never went public, there would be spooks and scalphunters the galaxy over privy to the information who'd say to each other, "You hear about the guy who got Ward? Suicide my ass, here's what really happened." For a man like him, that was worth more than all the credits in the galaxy.

That same man suddenly kicked Ward lightly in the foot, "Hey! Listen up, might save your life. Do not breathe in at last second, okay? Also, saliva might boil."

"W- what?" Ward didn't understand, knew little of what to expect. If anything he had expected instant death.

"How do you spend working life inches from space and know nothing of it?" Ahmedov paused and shook his head, "There is no time to explain. Get under desk and hold onto it." Ward refused in his last act of defiance, better late than never and sat steadfast against the drawers Gable had once rooted through. Ahmedov stormed over to him and Ward clamped his eyes shut for the gloved hand to strike his face but it never came. Instead the heavy accented voice reached him, laden with threat, "I blow window either way, is my exit. If you follow instructions then you come with me. If not then fat corpse float through space. Choose."

Ward opened his eyes to see Ahmedov stride to the far side of the room and heard voices from outside, "Colonel, sir! We've had reports of shots fired! Open the door sir!" Ahmedov turned his back to the pleas of security and bowed his head, letting out a grunt and a long groan that exploded into a fevered roar. Self preservation trumped defiance and Ward crawled like an infant under his desk. Crying and bawling, all sense of shame understandably lost in the circumstances, he stretched himself tight against both sides of the space and pinned himself there. The last image he had before closing his eyes for what could be the very last time in his life was of Sergeant Ahmedov Bitsiraev raising his right arm at the window, lost in blue haze and soft flame.

One final, inhuman shout and the buzz of a biotic pulse shot toward and over his head. All of his focus was on breathing out, pushing every last cubic centimetre of air from his lungs but when he heard the crashing, electric clatter of the window, instinct took over and he gasped. Space though, in its vastness, snatched it back before it had so much as tickled his throat. His ears popped and shot with pain, the rushing hurricane reduced to the sea in a shell. His chest burned, eyes begged to be opened and he was shocked by a sudden pain, as though kicked in the side. _Ahmedov, I can only hope he's panicking as much as me._ The sound stopped, ceased entirely. Only the quickened pulse and feverish thoughts remained. Time was a lost concept to him as he imagined the contents of his office spreading across Alliance Space and felt himself being hauled out from under the desk. He complied, remembering that helping for as long as he was still conscious would increase his chances of survival.

Ahmedov cursed him no doubt, "fat bastard" and probably far worse, but he was thankful to the vacuum for not having to hear it. He thought he heard a voice as he was pulled blindly to his feet, Ahmeov's words having travelled through both their bodies to his ears but dismissed it as his imagination. Unfairly shoved onto the oak top of his desk like a slab of meat, Ward's head went light and he gave up. _They'll manage from here. I'll just- I'll just have a little nap._ Space is cold, an understatement at best, but as Ward lay on his back he understood something he had once read. People caught in avalanches talk of how warm the snow seems when they are close to the end. Those found unconscious in it say they laid down to warm themselves up. Ward accepted Death's hand, let himself go in the warmth of nothing and thought if this is what Shepard went through.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: If any of you own 'Sunshine', I would suggest watching it with the commentary from Prof. Brian Cox (not to be confused with the Scottish actor) who was the film's scientific advisor. He gives an insight into how a film balances realism with what works for dramatic effect. In my case his descriptions of what happens to the human body in the vacuum of space allowed me to create the above scene. You don't explode with the lack of air pressure (ala 'Total Recall') nor do you freeze (ala 'Sunshine', he explains that this would not be the case at this point of the film), you simply suffocate and suffer a bad case of the bends. Anyway, story wise... well, Ahmedov's loyalties are clear or forever unclear and Ward's office has been left with a power vacuum. Pun intended. Who will take over from him and hear the recording of his last conversation? **

**Assuming he's even dead. I had this scene in my mind almost as early as Chapter 6 and originally it was going to be Gable who carried it out but he has become something of a hermit, lost in the Fringe. Waiting...**


	20. Chapter 20

Ahmedov was smoking his cigarette in Ward's office as Gable stared out at nothing in particular from the window of his own, though neither were aware of the other's exact actions. Still, Gable checked the time on a datapad closest to hand, rested precariously on the window sill, and knew the plan was soon to come to fruition. Maybe it had already happened or maybe it was still hours away. Only one thing at that moment was certain, he was out of alcohol. Going outside of the building was not something he enjoyed and the office had become his safe haven over the course of his year spent living out of it. But the only thing that affected his life there more than the paranoia was his ever increasing desire for routine. He made a slow plod for the door into the lobby, beside which hung a mirror and his bomber jacket. The armour hadn't been worn since he arrived there and was stored safely away under the half-used double bed. He pushed his tired arms slowly into the jacket over the grey Alliance Academy vest, they still ached from the daily exercise. Outside of the merc's hideout he ceased to be Sean Gable and instead fitted into his role of an ex-Alliance pilot who bored anyone stupid enough to come near him with tales of missions long ago, laden with hyperbole. The mirror reflected this new identity, close-shaved head and a well trimmed beard. Both turning ever more grey.

The door to his room locked, checked and checked again, Gable didn't find a soul lounging in the lobby and headed out into the street. His destination was Cartagena's most affluent bar, the Fringe, as it had been so many times before but the route was always different. The spook's life was drummed into him so hard that he made a routine of not being routine in his movements. All for the sake of whoever was following him, the scalphunters Ward had promised to send after him in the colonel's moment of blind panic at Gable getting one over on him. He had suspected dozens, hundreds of seemingly innocent bystanders over the months. Everyone who happened to walk in the same direction as himself for more than a minute was under his scrutiny and when eventually none of them made their move, Gable turned his attention to those he saw more often.

There was the salarian who sold him the essential whisky, "Real stuff! Aged in real barrels! None of that synthetic shit!" Even though it was the exact opposite of claimed. The mixed group he played cards with every month created such a gut sense of fear that he only kept going to help his cover story. He forever regretted being drunk enough to say yes to that initial request by one of the group. He had long forgotten where he even met them.

The bouncer at the Fringe was over-friendly enough to make Gable certain he was keeping tabs on him. A turian, veteran of some war or another, Gable forgot but felt he was too talkative for his species. "Max!" he announced Gable's fake name upon appearance that day, "Always a pleasure."

"Sorry who are you?" Gable held a serious face for a moment before he cracked a smile, "Vikkus, I'm joking with you of course."

"This guy!" Vikkus spoke to the impatient queue that formed outside the main entrance, "This guy doesn't have to wait like the rest of you plebs. Go on in Max." Gable patted him on the back as he entered the never-ending bass line.

The main bar was far too noisy and crowded for him, although he always maintained that this was _not _because he had become an old man, no matter what the bartenders suggested. There was an intimate side bar, quiet and dark. It was supposed to be used by couples wanting a little bit of quiet time and was lit accordingly with reds and purples, they would come in for a drink and pull up a private booth. Instead it attracted people like Gable, was often populated by quiet loners and the owners didn't seem to have a problem with it - loners tend to spend more on booze than loved-up couples anyway. The human bartender knew his face and having long grown tired of the stories was curt with the pleasantries to save an earful. Gable didn't so much as remember the man's name. "Max, usual seat?" It was near the bar's only decent-sized holoscreen and close enough to hear the reduced volume, "What can I get you?"

"Funnier every time."

"Scotch on the rocks it is."

"Can you flick over to the Alliance News? Like to keep up on current events," Gable settled in and waited.

* * *

><p>Ward's body had evidently awoken a moment or two before his mind, already clutching for two lung-fulls of air when he became aware of his surroundings. A moment more to realise that his breathing meant he was still alive at all and not floating forever in orbit around the massive red giant.<p>

"Wakey, wakey," a voice that Ward didn't recognise, "Eggs and bacey. Follow my finger." An index digit moved rigidly across his line of sight, back and forth but he was more interested in the new face. Blonde hair, all business at the sides and well-regimented mess on top, framed a stern face and sea-blue eyes. The kind of guy Ward would have hated at school and who wouldn't have known a guy like him even existed or so he told himself. "Hey numbnuts, follow the finger. You were out for five minutes, making sure I didn't risk my ass to carry a three-hundred pound potato through space." _Two sixty-eight. I was working on it._ But none of that mattered now and Ward followed the finger, just as interested to find out whether or not his brain tissue had started to break down through lack of oxygen.

The blonde captor had been knelt next to him and rose to his feet, "There we go. Now, what's your name and what did you have for breakfast?"

Ward remained flat on his back catching up with five minutes of lost respiration, "Colonel Frank M. Ward and I skipped breakfast."

"First off you can forget the 'colonel', that is long gone," he almost laughed, "I'm no neurologist but I reckon your grey matter is just fine." Ward held his tongue at this, best not to piss these guys off, and instead struggled to sit up. His pants were dry but stained and he appeared to be in the cargo hold of a small trading vessel though there was no cargo to be seen. _Had to be empty to get me in here_.

"Where is he?"

"The helm," the blonde was tall and broad shouldered, looked almost like a quarterback in the second-hand armour, "Gettin' us the hell outta Dodge as they say. Once we get to a relay he'll come talk to you." Ward's chest still burned on the tail end of every inhalation, lung damage he presumed and he discovered a small cut across his palm. The quarterback gave an explanation, "Cut it on the window which was the last thing we needed, your vital fluids vaporising. I had to hold your hand the rest of the way but don't go thinking I got sweet on you or nothin'."

Far more talkative than Ahmedov and what did Ward have to lose, "How long have you been working for Gable?"

"Who?" but he raised his eyebrows and grinned all the same, the shifting features revealed either the beginnings of a beard or the final stages of procrastination, "If I did work for, Gable was it? I imagine he would have me never actually say it to anyone. You know, if I did."

"Of course," Ward assumed now that he was being taken to Gable personally. _He wants to make sure it's done and over. Got mercs working for him? Terminus System? Omega? Bastard could be anywhere._

"Which I don't." A mechanism behind Ward buzzed into creaking life and he turned to see the hold's main, inner door split down the middle with a puff of pressure balancing. An armoured figure entered and he knew from the limbs and gait this merc was female, which to him undermined the scratched, intimidating skull sprayed on her helmet completely.

"Why are you showing him your face? Idiot," she was livid and the voice cracked in anger, "You know the sorts of guys he could have after you?" The reply sent a chill through Ward, the quarterback's lighthearted tone only tightened the terror to a ball in his chest.

"Doesn't matter whose face he sees now," he was more like Ahmedov than Ward first assumed, "Also yeah, he's conscious. No thanks to you running off the moment we get back in. Doesn't take two to fly this junk heap."

"Takes one to make sure nobody's following us. You know what, why the hell am I explaining myself to you?" she pointed at him, jabbing the finger at every second word, "We're close to the relay. Get him comfortable before we jump."

A shrug from the wide shoulders, "You ain't the boss of me."

"His orders not mine."

"He ain't the boss of me either."

"You want me to tell him that? Thought not," she stormed back out of the hold muttering to herself, "The fuck did I do wrong to end up working with this clown?"

The blonde merc watched her swaying swagger until the doors sealed shut and looked at Ward with a schoolboy's grin, "I know right? Don't bother barking up that tree. Bitch is so cold she'll freeze your dick solid and snap it off." It was so vulgar as to ring false to Ward, a fake misogyny that grew amongst military personnel like a fungus. Regardless he got the impression that even a guy as big as this merc wouldn't have the balls to say it to her face.

"Hope you can stand," he said after a thoughtful pause, "Cos I don't need to screw my back up carrying you to the bunk. Get as much rest as you can, you'll need it."

Ward dreamt of nothing but suffocation. Unable to breath or talk or scream, stumbling blindly through places he felt he knew well. Corridors devoid of all life and atmosphere, never ending despite the lack of air. Ahmedov's fearsome armoured mask appeared in front of Ward's face and was there wherever he turned to escape it. No sound in a vacuum but the dream allowed him to hear the sergeant's breathing. It mocked him. Two more figures stood away and observed Ahmedov's seemingly unmotivated terrorism. Gable and Phalanx watched on, each as dispassionate as the other. Until a nod from Gable and Ahmedov moved in suddenly, a stab of pain and Ward was awake again. Cold sweat and he sucked down air as thought the dream had forced him to stop in his sleep.

One terror had followed him back out in the conscious realm and he sat bolt upright on the bunk upon seeing Ahmedov crouched in one corner of the cramped room, still in his armour but with the helmet now removed. He watched Ward intently without so much as a twitch in his facial features, nothing in the eyes to give away his intent. His words came out slow and steady, echoing of the close walls, "You awake? Good. Sorry we couldn't get you better room. I have questions to ask, Gable wants answers."

"Ask away," Ward swung his feet to the cold floor and settled in for another game of tit-for-tat, another battle of wits.

"I take you to med-bay first," not an iota of compassion in the voice, maybe in the whole of his body, "Get you checked out properly."

"Where are the other two?" Ward tried to keep things jovial and hoped against hope that he hadn't been left alone with this man.

"They have been dropped off, paid their share," the following might as well have put a bullet in Ward's gut, "It's just you and me. I played nice on Arcturus but if you scream here? Well you know, is no use. But maybe you smart, just give me answers." Ahmedov only shrugged, as if Ward had asked him the time and he had no idea. As though threatening torture was a daily occurrence. He scratched at his scarred lips as Ward digested this revelation of his near future and probable end. _What did you think was going to happen? Risk their lives to kidnap you from the last human stronghold just to let you go again? Fat in the head, just like everywhere else._

"Is nothing personal," a band aid on a sucking chest wound, "Is just business."

* * *

><p>Hours passed with little discussed on the Alliance News but the ceased communication with a number of human colonies in the Terminus Systems. No other race had seemingly been affected and the network had to begrudge a Cerberus spokesman to give his take on the situation. The inevitable xenophobia and fear. Batarians were the obvious answer but whole colonies? They didn't have the firepower surely. Speculation and guesswork being sold as hard fact by a galaxy-wide news network. Members of the public were given their own soapbox and Gable couldn't help but laugh a staggered drunken chortle at the opinions being given.<p>

"Well if you ask me it's the turians. At the end of the day we didn't kick their asses hard enough thirty years ago. It was just a matter of time before they came back for seconds."

"Batarians. Now I ain't a racist, _but _those four-eyes have been up to all sorts in the Terminus Systems and hate us humans for whatever dumb reason they can think of. Invade their homeworld, teach them a lesson before they attack another colony."

"Maybe the colonies don't want to be part of the Alliance anymore. After what happened at the Citadel and the Alliance's new pro-integration stance, what did they expect? Now I am not saying we should leave the council but should we really have to answer to them all the time?"

"The Alliance isn't acting in the best interests of humanity anymore. Only Cerberus does. Fuck the Alliance-" There followed an apology from the holographic anchor, reminded on the perils of live broad cast when mixed with anonymous ranting.

Gable downed his drink and held up the glass for another, the clinking ice a waiter's bell and the hint was taken, "What do you make of all this Max?"

"It's all politics," the alcohol had muddled Max and Gable, though their answer would have been the same, "I don't concern myself with them any more now than I did when I was a pilot." A derisive snort from his left, away from his attention toward the screen and he responded to it without turning his head, "What's so funny?"

A woman's voice, an accent that had once been antipodean but was moving on down the road to that messy, nondescript American that by then plagued humanity, "Trust a mercenary not to believe in anything he fights for."

"How many soldiers are merc in all but name?" Gable turned to her to find his mind played third-fiddle to his crotch and his gut, no wonder he'd had trouble getting the bartender's attention. _If I were twenty years younger maybe I would roam those hillsides._ "They pay you to kill. You don't have to believe in the Alliance's hopes and aspirations to shoot a batarian between all four eyes. And who says I'm a merc, lady?" He placed his blindspot over her face for practice. Five thousand credits could have fixed it, but he had gotten used to the new visual set-up. Routine always won through in the end.

"It's written all over you."

At this Gable looked to the bartender for a little back-up, hoping months of meagre tips might come to his rescue, "When they start letting chicks in here again?" But there came no reinforcements, his brother in arms left him high and dry. Bastard probably made a living out of not getting involved in arguments fuelled by the drinks he poured.

"The Alliance isn't doing anything about the colonies," she ignored Gable's misogyny, had to ignore it all her life no doubt, "That last caller had it right, only Cerberus will step up to the plate on this one." The holoscreen restored its hold of his attention, a sudden flicker of sound and noise that hadn't been expected. The attractive Cerberus-defender continued along the usual propaganda and Gable might have taken her for a true believer had he been listening at all. Instead his five hours of waiting had paid off.

"We are getting word of an incident at Arcturus Station, an explosion and partial decompression. Initial reports of a terrorist attack are being downplayed." They had a man on the scene, talking with the Media Liaison Officer for the station and they engaged in five minutes of what Gable thought of as 'jerking each other off'. He zoned out with the drink swirling around his brain but caught all that mattered, "We have one person missing but until we find either him or his body that is as much as were are willing to say at the moment." _One missing? Either he got away without being noticed or they know he's to blame. Either way, if Ahmedov does as told there won't be a body to find._

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I have realised that I cannot keep going at this pace and hope to finish any time in the next few months. The pace will increase, I feel this will only improve things and force me to come up with more inventive ways of describing events. The important things will be shown as they have done so far, but the increase in scope and characters means I have to be more particular. Suggest things rather than explicitly talk of them happening. Also, the appearance of Miranda is for little more than suggesting _when_ this is all going on. She visits Cartagena during ME:Galaxy to meet Jacob for the first time.**


	21. Chapter 21

His motives could only be guessed at by Gable and the other two mercs who were aware of the details of their job to capture and interrogate Ward. He was not a man to be ordered about, Gable knew that much and gave him a long line on how to go about the whole thing. He let him off the leash with only one proviso; no body can be found. It was Phalanx who had discovered Ahmedov's location and informed Gable through an intermediary, a none-the-wiser courier smart enough not to question nothing of where the money or package came from or indeed who he was delivering it to. The packages were nothing but encrypted datapads, the courier knew that much but was enough of a professional not to bother with them.

Where Phalanx was Gable didn't know and that worked well for the both of them. Presumably the geth platform floated through space in orbit around some star, with an ear out for the whole galaxy. There was one thing it couldn't discover with all the intelligence gathering software and algorithms for sifting and searching through it; the list of names who knew of its existence and potentially of Gable's now defunct mission. Only one man knew the names for certain and Phalanx had no way of getting to him, Gable neither. Ahmedov had presented the perfect opportunity in his exile to the X-57 asteroid and once Gable had seen the capabilities of the men to hand in the Abyss sent the best of them with the offer.

"Tell him the body _cannot_ be found," Gable had stressed to Weirkertsch, the huge blonde merc perched on the end of the bed (serving as a seat in the sparse 'office') like it was a meek first date, "It makes it easier on all of us." The one rule. Gable didn't care, or perhaps didn't want to know, how Ahmedov got the names but the body, the body could not be found.

The body was found by a farmer on the outskirts of a human colony, itself just on the Alliance side of the Skyllian Verge. The bloated corpse of an already bloated man discovered by curiosity over a flattened section of crops. He might have called the authorities and thought no more of it had they not ignored his pleas of being the target of thieves and petty piracy so many times before. Had the corpse appeared there only six months sooner, Ahmedov might have gotten away with it and the death written off as batarian terrorism. But the political allegiance of the farmer lay with Cerberus and he was more than proud to lead one of their local officers to the walk-in refrigerator only hours after the gruesome discovery. It was only when they, with some effort, got the stiff naked for an amateur autopsy that the officer realised that he was both out of his depth and going to get promoted for the find.

The farmer was all too happy to lose the contents of his store to maintain the body for further inspection, in return for compensation from Cerberus naturally. A second Cerberus agent of higher rank arrived at the farm the following day, rubber gloves at the ready. "You ever seen anything like this?" the local Cerberus man asked, hand over mouth to try and protect him from the stench. The rubber gloves said it all, moving over the slightly rotten body with adept swiftness. Every contusion, every slice in the fatty flesh or burnt area of skin carried with it the horrific mental image of the act that may have caused it. The would-be coroner suggested whoever had caused the injuries had himself a party and wasted a whole pack of cigarettes on this poor bastard.

All four limbs had been broken, fixed with medi-gel and snapped once more but this was not taken to be the cause of death. There was large section of soft flesh at the back of the head, suggesting a shattered area of skull from a heavy blow to the head. With what? By the way the fragments of skull had been forced into the brain without breaking the scalp he would say a biotic ability had caused the injury. Identification was near impossible with the amount of facial swelling. What about dental records?

The Cerberus agent replied with a snap of his gloves, "He'll be taken away for further study, if the farmer finds the teeth you can let us know."

* * *

><p>"There were two of you," Gable spoke slowly in a vain attempt to hide the rage at even seeing them back on Cartagena so soon, "But you just rolled over and did as told?" He had slid his way out of his room and along the corridor, a hand on the wall for support. Knives in his eyes and hammers taking turns on his skull, he didn't even remember heading back after news of Ward's expulsion into space had made galaxy-wide broadcast. And then on top of the hangover he had found the two of them in the lobby, bold as brass. Weirkertsch with his stripped down rifle and the other, Sarah Rustrich, a female pilot hired to replace (so far at least) the seven cut all those months earlier.<p>

The others called her Rusty which put them on par with the boys she had gone to school with in terms of wit. Short brunette hair did little to hide an unremarkable face and the rest was summed up by one of the younger male mercs with 'you wouldn't say no'. Trouble was that she always did, a life surrounded by such men had developed a very thick skin around the lean figure. Rusty was all but sexless and immune to their macho charms which only made them try all the harder to get their end away with her. She sat away from Weirkertsch when Gable found them and stared mournfully at the ceiling.

"You told us to-" the blonde quarterback started to talk but rolled his eyes as Gable cut him short.

"I told you to keep him in check! And your idea was to leave him alone with the target."

"I wasn't losing a finger to keep a muzzle on him."

Rusty's voice was more enticing than her visage, "He made it perfectly clear we were going to leave him on his lonesome one way or another. As soon as we had jumped from the Arcturus system, he kicked us out." She drummed her fingers on her thigh and didn't continue.

"That's it?" Gable paced and ranted, "He asked and you just did it! Not a fucking testicle between the two of you."

"Get off our case," she snapped, "You neglected to mention I would be working with a psycho. If it wasn't for the rest of my share I wouldn't have come back at all." _This is what I get for extending a little bit of trust._

"You," Gable pointed to Weirkertsch, "You knew what you were getting into with him. You met before." The blonde merc had been the envoy, the man to remotely patch things up between Ahmedov and Gable. To finally make good on the promise made at Hotel Kilo.

"That place had sedated him, I could tell that much," was the shrugged reply, "Bored out of his mind there no doubt slowed down to stop him going crazy. You let him loose and complain that he goes overboard? The fuck?"

Gable knew they were right and that the responsibility was his own. The weight of command was heavy on his shoulders as it had been in the Blitz and he wished he was back out in the field. But he couldn't have risked it this time, going so close to Arcturus and Ward himself. Not after hiding for so long. Was he any different from Ward now? Getting others to put themselves at risk doing his dirty work. Ahmedov had been a gamble all along, an unknown quantity and now he was alone with the one man who could still put the screws to Gable. Was Ward pouring honey in the Chechen's ear? Just as Gable himself had done through the merc sat there, clicking his weapon back into operation. Weirkertsch and Rustrich hadn't been sent to keep him check so much as to make sure that it was all ended properly. And now? Doubt had raised its ugly head as the worst enemy, "Did he say where he was going?"

"'The plan remains same'," Weirkertsch performed a cringing impression of Ahmedov, "Says he'll meet you at the time and place specified. You get to see what kind of environment creates a guy like him."

Gable locked his fingers behind his head and looked to the ceiling, "You're coming with me you Aryan waste of space. If it's trap I want you to walk into it first."

"Aryan? You make it sound so nasty and if I go my share doubles!" He had to shout the last two words as Gable staggered back to his room.

* * *

><p>"You bring him as back up? That didn't work on mission, you think he scare me now?" Ahmedov laughed into his shot glass and threw it back with his head. The three men sat at a small square table, Ahmedov and Gable on opposite sides with Weirkertsch between them. The table sat in one shadowy corner of a rowdy bar where laughs, cheers and exclamations of several Baltic languages would interrupt their discussion. As did the howling wind when the door slipped open and brought with it large, soft flakes of snow that landed on the already sodden floor before vanishing from view. Some long-forgotten Alliance settlement made up of mostly Eastern Europeans and citizens of ex-Soviet states, the planet's average temperature was five degrees colder than Earth. Ahmedov was at home and entertained Gable as a guest with tales of his staggered life there.<p>

"My grandmother is on the air. We spread her ash here, outside. Wind blows her back in our faces. Never laughed so hard! Drink." It wasn't a request and the two visitors took a shot of the clear liquor. Ahmedov had almost filled their glasses once more before they even touched the table.

Gable put a hand over his own and a drop rolled over his knuckles before Ahmedov had realised, "Where's Ward?"

"Is dead," as the Chechen replied Weirkertsch took another gulp and his handsome features screwed up from his mouth's kneejerk reaction, "That is way!" The blonde merc flinched as Ahmedov moved to pat him on the back and pour another from the table's bottle.

"That's not what I asked," Gable pressed with a repeat of the question, "Where's Ward?"

"I dump him in some field," he said offhandedly and a dozen bad endings ran through Gable's mind. Though he said nothing with the anger that grew in him over the revelation and Ahmedov had to fill the silence, "Don't worry, is unrecognisable. Doesn't have tooth left in head and when the swelling goes down they only find on eye. Unrecognisable."

"How many black-asian obese fucks do you think there are on the Alliance radars?" Weirkertsch opened the chastisements, "Shoulda blown him out of the airlock."

Gable didn't need the back up on this one and raised a hand to quieten him, "You keep your hindsight solutions to yourself." He knew why Ahmedov did it, that he wanted the body to be found. Not for any blackmail purposes or because he was working for another faction but simply so that his handiwork didn't go to waste and the results could be seen by somebody other than himself. All Gable's fears of double-crosses and conspiracies regarding Ahmedov Bitsiraev slipped from his mind at the final realisation that he was dealing with an actual psychopath - work driven though he may have been. A man with no reason to lie to anyone, a bittersweet thought that the only person he could trust was truly unhinged.

Gable spoke evetually, having digested this, "Now, if he _is_ identified? If I were Ward I would have recorded any conversation with you."

"I gave him nothing," Ahmedov turned suddenly serious, "He gave me little. Nothing I hadn't suspected before." Their conversation became implicit for the sake of Weirkertsch, who sat with his arms crossed like an offspring knowing his parents were having a secret discussion he wasn't allowed to understand.

"He gave you the names?"

"Not willingly," Ahmedov put his left hand to the opposite forearm, "Hungry bastard took chunk out of me." A queer laugh escaped him as he added, "Did not expect it, had balls after all."

"How many names?" _Should be eight including myself and Ward._

"Six," another small laugh, "He say four at first, I able to correct him."

"Can I have them?" Gable put a hand across the table, "You have already been paid. Made sure before I left the Abyss."

"I made sure you had before I left apartment," he downed another shot before producing a datapad, "I am honourable man - who enjoys little bit of torture. These names, they know of your mutual friend with Ward?"

"Yes."

"So you send boyscouts after them?" A motion toward Weirkertsch.

"That's the plan." A cold draft reached them from the door and two of the three shivered at the feeling.

"I know of mutual friend too."

"I have no problem with you." _Aside from the methods and insubordination._

"And now I think you have no more work for me." The biotic Chechen was utterly still and Gable didn't know if he was going to cry or leap across the table to slit his throat.

"One of the names could be yours," Gable offered, "But I need to know you can follow orders. This thing with Ward can still blow up in our faces."

"I worry that three of us," Ahmedov started and then specified, "Not blondie here, but you and Ward and I are not so different. Worry one day I will be boring as you. Already you pull strings like fat corpse. Your boss know you use his men for personal business? I think not." Gable didn't reply. As much as he wanted to argue this, he couldn't. Almost a year had been spent cooped up in that abandoned hotel, not stepping outside for fear of the webs he had created and incensed. How was that any different than Ward locked away in the supposed safety of Arcturus? "Is understandable. You are what, fifty? Sixty? Old enough to have fought in First Contact? Not marine anymore-" Gable's face reddened at this, even in the cold and Ahmedov felt the need to explain, "-by this I mean you too old to be in the field. Spooks always go to desk or retire, you just went private. I rather die than this but each man to his own. Is that the saying?"

Gable said that it was.

"Drink has loosened tongue but I say what I think. You hire me you know what you are getting. I always here and you give good work. What we did with fat man?" he spoke to Weirkertsch and brought up his arms in excitement, "Was legendary! I want more of that!"

"And if I don't want to hire you again?"

"I don't hold grudges, not like you," Ahmedov laid it all out, palms both flat on the table, "You repaid debt from Hotel Kilo and we even. You don't hire me? No matter."

"You attract a lot of attention."

"Only to myself."

"Which name would you like?"

"Highest rank," Ahmedov smirked, "I enjoy officers more."

"Sorry," Gable checked the list, "Lieutenant Himmen is only name I intend to handle personally. Did Ward tell you what my mission was?"

"He asked me the same question of you," another shot was downed, "Answer remains same. Just give me name and let me loose."

After that the three sat in silence for some time, until a large portion of the bottle had gone and night temperatures plummeted well below zero. Until eventually Weirkertsch thought it safe to ask a grown-up question, "Who do you think will take Ward's place?"

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Writer's block this week and work is on my back like a stark-raving chimpanzee with a bone to pick. Off work next week though. Sadly down to London and visiting relatives for the weekend and beyond so I will have to wait a few more days for Mass Effect 3 (9th March release over here). But airports and buses give me plenty of time for writing. So I should be able to churn out another chapter before I get my hands on the game itself. Speaking of which (and half the reason for my writer's block on this one) I have had ideas for my next story to be set during ME3. Got a character in my head just need to find out what the hell happens in the game to lay the story around.**

**Anyway, hope we all are enjoying the conclusion to the trilogy.**


	22. Chapter 22

Craw had received anonymous requests before and thought nothing peculiar of the latest to be delivered to his bar on Omega by way of datapad. Six names, one hundred thousand credits for each. Though wet work had never sat well with him he had no problem with delegating the task to others and only raised an eyebrow when the single provision of the work was that it be carried out by his agents in the Nemean Abyss. It would appear that Gable had whipped the guys out there into shape and Craw didn't dig any deeper, happier just to take his slice of one fifth and pass on the work as had been asked of him.

The request for the work had come from Gable himself by way of three separate couriers. Costly and time-consuming thought it was, the process saved a lot of questions and allowed him to take care of all the names as quickly as possible. The bounties would not come from his own pocket, which would have been a case of robbing Peter to pay Paul, but instead from a firm called Elysium Shipping Contractors. A front set up out of the ether by Phalanx; an address, employees and invoices that existed in little more than ones and zeroes in the air. All paid for by a man nobody knew. His taxes were always in order, that was the main thing and no questions were ever asked. Gable never found out if the wealth of this proxy ghost had been created out of thin air by some software of Phalanx's design or quietly stolen a credit at a time from thousands of existing accounts. It mattered little in the end; Craw got paid and the mercs got paid.

Even Weirkertsch didn't say a word against the whole set up, knowing that this was a personal vendetta by his immediate boss to quieten a number of people who potentially had dirt on him. In the end he was a true mercenary and any doubts he may have had for the motives behind the work disappeared quicker than the deposits materialised in his account. In the grand scheme of things six men mattered little, but especially so in light of entire human colonies disappearing left, right and centre. Or so Gable hoped and prayed would be the case. The six deaths would appear random and more than one of the names had good reason to turn up dead.

One of the guards who held watch on Phalanx during Ward's interrogations had serious gambling debts to more than a few back-alley dens on Illium. His death was officially chalked up as having been murdered by his creditors though no charges were ever brought through on the prime suspects. Another was found contorted unnaturally on the sidewalk outside of an apartment complex, assumed suicide until the gawping onlookers got close enough to see the double tap in his chest.

There was the guard injured by Phalanx in its escape attempt - given a bullet in the gut by the machine before he knew it had its hand on a pistol. His medical insurance hadn't covered a full recovery and he was left in excruciating pain, even when Ward got him a nice desk job to ease the burden on his newly tender digestive tract. Found dead in has back garden with a note and an empty pill dispenser by his wife. The local authorities didn't believe her pleas that he would never killed himself, that he wasn't that kind of man. Another simply vanished from his secluded home in Alliance space, a borderline hermit eventually discovered missing by a monthly drinking buddy. His case went cold and was eventually forgotten.

The fifth was the one that drew the most attention, an intelligence analyst who had conducted interviews with Phalanx on Ward's behalf. By the time of her death she was aide to a soldier-turned-politician who used his (short) military career to gather votes in low-level elections. Her death was considered collateral damage in an attempt on the politician's life at a public groundbreaking ceremony. "I think it was school or something," Ahmedov said later, "Lot of kids from all races, good opportunity for picture." The children bore witness to her death, the high velocity round acting as though she were hardly there and a wound in her back that could have been filled with a man's fist. Written off as a failed assassination attempt, the killer was never found but the Mantis rifle was. Almost half a kilometre away in an otherwise empty hotel room, wiped clean of prints, scratched clean of serial number and, "No we don't have record of such a weapon coming through customs, stop asking."

"Was off-world before they even shut down main shuttle docks. Hope I didn't win him any votes."

The sixth Gable had sworn to take care of personally. Lieutenant Himmen, fellow veteran of Elysium and the man who had snatched Gable out of drell custody. Whilst the rest were dispatching the other names on the list, Gable engaged in quiet digging after Himmen's whereabouts. Careful not to be too persuasive or questioning of those Alliance personnel who came to the station and even more so with what he asked of Phalanx on the subject - another time consuming set of logistics. There was no rush and Gable was able to build up a picture of what happened to the lieutenant since their last meeting in the docking station of Arcturus. Pieced together from a wide mix of sources, cross-referenced to remove the half-truths and lies from drunken, forgotten Alliance soldiers. "Oh sure! I know a Lieutenant Himmen!" Only for their memory to suddenly escape them after the drinks were purchased.

For whatever reason Ward didn't kill Himmen and nor did he send him away to rot on some godforsaken station in contested space. _Probably smart enough to have his own dirt on Ward, ready for a little retaliatory blackmail. _Instead he was given a comfortable job in regular military intelligence away from the cloaks and daggers of Ward's world. It had been a quiet job and according to Phalanx's unearthings involved Himmen to mostly sign off on satellite imagery and recordings of deep-space transmissions. When the colonies started disappearing Himmen was made part of a task force whose primary focus was on discretely looking into the situation, before there even officially was a situation. Though things rarely go so smoothly as anyone ever plans and one of the then deserted Alliance colonies was invaded in a bold move by the batarians. This only added to the suspicions that they were behind the disappearances in the first place. Although not with the general on the ground, sending troops in retaliation against the occupiers.

Gable landed as part of a private troop transport, there was little need for subterfuge and he was worryingly easy for him to convince his way onto the shuttle. It was three weeks after the Alliance had put boots on the ground and he had gotten word of Himmen being on-world. He asked the first marine he met in the sparkling new staging area for the CO and got him, much the general's disgust, "Which limped-dick FNG sent you to me? I ain't got time to meet and greet every private contractor who comes down here. We got a battle to fight here." Gable said nothing but gave a knowing roll of the eyes at the FNG comment. "Listen... what did you say- forget it, no time for names. I got some fucking reporter coming down to grill my ass about what's going on here. Fucking private must have thought that was you. He won't be happy, this ain't like Elysium and it sure as shit ain't Torfan. He'll want me to give him the skinny on the batarians trying to take the place and blame them for the disappearing act this place pulled."

Gable explained he had served on Elysium and Torfan which seemed to perk up the general no end.

"Well I don't need to explain this shit to you. This battle is a dirty little secret, which is good because nobody gives a fuck and we can get things done without the usual red-tape. No civvies to worry about and only four-eyes to shoot, my boys are loving it out there." He pointed over the hills toward the nearest city. The general added that he was on his way to the operations building after meeting up with the reporter and that Gable could tag along until he was able to get out the general's hair. Although he couldn't hide his relief at having another veteran for company, if only for a few minutes.

The reporter jumped off an arriving shuttle last, the marines on board having exited before it so much as touched the ground - the lush green long worn away by the movements of the military machine. He was young, eager and stood out like a sore thumb in his blue chest plate emblazoned with 'press' in white capitals. _Do batarians read English?_ The kid wouldn't shut up and asked all the questions Gable didn't need to on their way to Operations. The general was shockingly honest.

How big was the batarian invasion? "A collection of about seventy five ships and we estimated five thousand ground troops were dropped into the colony's major cities." How big was the Alliance force? "Four times that." This statistic was chewed over by the reporter before he asked for details of the retaliation. "The batarian fleet was destroyed before they had chance to pull their thumb out and from there we landed. Much to my disgust." Oh? "Yeah, the ships had orders not to engage the surface and the rest was to be a ground war. I wanted to fuck the place from orbit."

"Only way to be sure," muttered Gable and gave the reporter a wink.

"Alliance wanted the colony intact," the general continued, "So now I'm stuck fighting batarians street to street." How many are left? "Can't tell, they're good at hiding in the cities. Only got permission last week to target buildings suspected of being used as temporary enemy headquarters." From who? "Whichever armchair general changes the ROE whenever he likes. Eventually he'll be replaced and I'll be blamed for not flattening the place from orbit."

"And who are you?" the reporter turned his sights on Gable, omni-tool recording every word. The general came to his rescue before Gable could say a word.

"Private contractor, here to protect the interests of whatever suit thinks they can make some quick credits out of this mess. The same suits who tell the powers that be not to damage the place. Everyone has my fucking hands tied. You'll want to go to the front line?" The reporter grinned like a mad man at the thought. "Good. That gets your nose out of my ass. Now how's about we walk in silence for a while?" The reporter didn't allow this but the general didn't answer another question as far as the operations building and left the two of them without to much as a word.

"I think I might stick with you," the reporter said to Gable as they waited for the intelligence liaison officer, "People have a right to know what is going on here. Another example of the Alliance's disproportionate use of force."

"You sign anything to get here?" Gable asked and received a small nod, "Did you read the small print? They'll go through everything you write and record with a fine-tooth comb. Nothing on interest will reach a human ear. Why you think he was so honest with you? Another thing, you follow me around and I will break that omni-tool along with your wrist."

That wasn't the last Gable saw of the reporter - they shared a shuttle out to an FOB outside one city where clashes with the small remaining batarian resistance were common - but it was the last he heard from him. Himmen was said to be monitoring enemy communications within the city from the safety of the base and the reporter got on the liaison's nerves enough to be thrown onto the next shuttle out of the staging area. Gable foresaw the kid being sent from pillar to post in an effort to make him somebody else's problem. For the length of the shuttle ride he was the squad of marines' problem, though for the most part they made fun of his armour and told horror stories of what batarians did to journalists. "I'll save a bullet for you in case you get caught! Your sphincter will thank me!" And for a moment the laughter outdid the engines.

Himmen was there waiting at the FOB's landing pad when Gable's shuttle arrived, arm held to his face to keep the dust from his eyes. Waves fluttered across the green ocean of grass away from them and the noise of orders scarcely had to wait for the engines to shut off. _Someone called ahead, told him I was coming._ Himmen's face didn't break its stern steeliness as Gable stopped in front of the lieutenant. "Gable," the slightest of nods, "Thought you were dead. The big beard doesn't suit you."

"Hope is rarely enough to get what you want." Himmen beckoned over to one of the several semi-permanent structures that littered the fertile valley, read to be picked up wholesale when the last batarian stopped breathing.

"You might want me dead but the feeling is not mutual," Himmed limped away as Gable followed and he continued, "Things have worked out well for me and I almost have a career now." Gable's fists clenched open and shut, _walked straight into a trap, again._ Himmen waited until they were alone in the officer barracks before he explained his position over a quick brew. "It's not quite the frontline but it beats being stuck behind a desk and besides, could you imagine me hobbling about the battlefield with a rifle?"

He offered Gable a seat, "All I had to do was play Ward at his own game when the bastard started clearing up shop after your stunt at Hotel Kilo. Now I worry I will have to do the same with you to keep my neck let alone my job."

"What makes you think I'm here for that?"

"It's all you know, for one thing," Himmen almost laughed, "Not to mention that I couldn't help but notice five deaths lately. You think nobody was keeping tabs after Ward flung them across the galaxy? Though getting to Ward himself? Ballsy move if ever I saw one. Who'd you get to do it?"

_He knows already, just seeing how cooperative I am willing to be._ Gable always thought of Himmen as a friend and mistaken though he may have been in that assumption they had always been fellow soldiers at least. If nothing else they could be honest with each other, but being honest and trusting what the other had to say were two entirely different things. "Why do I get the feeling I wouldn't have gotten this far unless you had let me?"

"Because you're paranoid but in this case for the wrong reasons," Himmen made a face at the tar in his mug, "I told command I was expecting a private gun-for-hire to come my way, didn't know who and didn't know when. They didn't like the idea of letting some stranger behind their lines but we 'tellies' as the grunts call us do have certain privileges. Maybe you didn't show up at all, maybe some associate of yours did." He shrugged. "Anyway I have intel for you and all I ask is that you leave me the hell alone from here on out. I hate seeing you Gable, I really do. When Ward sent me to pick you up, I begged for someone else. But he insisted saying it was the only way to get you to agree."

"You said you requested-" Gable was actually shocked and looked back on every conversation they had shared.

"Yeah well we all say a lot of things sometimes. Ever since Elysium," Himmen tapped with a knuckle at his stiff, useless leg, "You ruined my life, my career and got my squad killed. I just want to forget about it all and move on, not have you and Ward hanging over me for the rest of my days." Gable knew better than to argue with this, despite his conscience and gut screaming that he should have. "Can I assume we have a deal? Good, because what I am about to tell you is worth a lot more than I am asking for. Wouldn't be surprised if you offered to suck my dick after." An attempt at a joke betrayed by the fatigue in his eyes.

There were two main points connected by an overall theme. Firstly, Ward's successor was a Cerberus mole. A sleeper agent, Himmen explained, in for the long haul and who knows how long he had been waiting for an opportunity. Hotel Kilo had been the catalyst and only Ward's bullheaded tenacity had allowed him to keep a fingertip grip on his position. By then the mole was Ward's successor and when it was obvious that the revelation of Gable's actions (although the mission still remained secret) hadn't been enough, the mole backed Ward to the hilt. _Easier to stab a man in the back later than in the front when all eyes were still watching._ He had to wait a further year until Gable sent "that Chechen nutjob" to enact his revenge.

Gabled asked the obvious question, "How do you know all this?"

Himmen smiled before explaining, impatience. As he had explained the mole had been waiting a _long_ time to fill Ward's shoes and when he eventually did? "Guy blew his load too quick. The amount of intelligence at his fingertips? He started leaking like someone shot a hole in him. Some moles work, some don't. This guy cracked at the worst possible time and got caught real quick. He was turned over to N7 interrogators and sang the sweetest tune we had heard in years."

"How much did he get out?" Gable listened intently.

"Like I said, we got him quick." Nothing big but the mole made the mistake of copying Ward's final recording in the office with Ahmedov. "It was still part of the Alliance's investigation into Ward's death. Red flagged and after he was caught in the act Ward's death was pinned on Cerberus and your friend was assumed to be within their ranks. I thought the same way until the very few people who knew of Phalanx started turning up dead." The machine's name was scarcely uttered in so much as a whisper.

"What was on the recording?"

"Your name and Bitsiraev, naturally but he was savvy enough not to mention anything of your location or your mission." The final word was given the same hushed reverence as the geth's codename. Gable was still trying to process the whole thing but one realisation was now certain, he couldn't kill Himmen and the Alliance had little interest in pursuing him as the mole had offered them a quick explanation and exit from the whole sorry affair. Cerberus was the concern now and Gable would have to remain hidden, only now from different eyes.

"They'll go after Bitsiraev first, Cerberus I mean," Himmen stood to straighten his stiff legs, "It's not a major concern but curiosity will get the better of them and they'll want to know why you killed Ward and perhaps five people associated with him."

"And you?"

"There's no record of myself ever having any dealings with the deceased colonel, I made sure of that," Gable stood to leave, having for all he felt he needed, "You don't want to hear the second part? Blows the first right out of the water."

The N7s were concerned they had leaned on the mole too hard, beat on him just that little bit too long that he started talking gibberish, saying anything for a respite from the pain. And when the claim was made the marines had laughed so hard they _did_ stop punching him. It was dismissed as ludicrous by all who heard the recordings of the interrogation but Himmen for whom the words were open-palmed slap across the face, "Shepard! Shepard is alive! He's with Cerberus!" The mole continued in the same vein but was drowned out on the tape by the laughter.

"You're certain?" was all Gable could say though Himmen didn't answer with anything but silence. Gable physically sank in the chair, having not given Shepard any serious thought in months, hadn't even listened to the personal recordings Phalanx had give him. Now though? Working for Cerberus? Alliance fears fully realised and new fire in his belly for the mission he had given up hope on.

"You need to warn the sergeant, if only to save your own ass." Gable knew Himmen was right but didn't know that it was already too late.

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><p><strong>AN: Some twenty hours into ME3 now and I think I have entered the final stage, I won't say exactly where for fear of spoilers. Speaking of which I have had to avoid this place like the fucking plague after reading one or more spoilers for the ending within story summaries. I should finish it tonight I reckon, then see what everybody is bitching about and read all the opinions on specifics. I now what I am expecting of the ending, the same thing I always expect of the genre and hope that it will not disappoint. Anyway, damn good game although is most certainly suffers from the same major problem the whole series has.**

**At once the series' strongest and weakest aspect is that it is many things for many players. You have to find those things that you enjoy and focus on them to really get the most out of it. I ignore Joker and EDI for example, indeed ignore all the shoe-horned relationship options in general and focus instead on the world Bioware have created. Vast and rich. ME3 lends itself very well to OC stories, that cannot be in doubt, due to it's whole Galactic War approach and hope to see a wide array of them in the coming weeks and months.**

**As for my current tale, the next chapter has been in my mind for quite some time - every since I introduced Ahmedov - and is loosely based on a wonderful episode of The Sopranos. Anyway, looking forward to getting this thing done.**

**Edit: I finished it about three hours ago and had all kinds of ideas to explain it to myself. And now I can't remember a single one of them because I watched a new 'Prometheus' trailer and all other sci-fi just doesn't stack up anymore.**


	23. Chapter 23

**Stack Lee had himself an evil brain, loved his gun and his sweet cocaine.**  
><strong>Stack got quiet when the shadows fell, knew soon enough that he'd burn in hell.<strong>

**Stack Shot Billy - The Black Keys**

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><p>It's only one man. That's what they kept saying whenever Dobart pointed out inadequacies in the snatch plan. He was to lead in the team responsible for the capture of Ahmedov Bitsiraev, wanted for the torture and murder of at least two humans. The distinction had to be made of course, that the two victims <em>were <em>human. Would Cerberus have cared otherwise? Dobart, an experienced Cerberus operative, had been brought in because of his experience with such operations but that was as far as the preparation seemed to have gone. He was denied using his own people, denied also access to the intelligence leading to the snatch itself being ordered. The source, he was told, was highly sensitive and utterly above reproach. Nothing is routine, his personal mantra, was not shared by the eleven men put under his command for the grab or by the snot-nosed CO who called the shots. By the time the day came for them to make their move, complacency had taken hold of all but Dobart himself.

The pre-action briefing had been a farce. Half the time was wasted by the Cerberus soldiers complaining about the less than hospitable conditions of Ahmedov's homeworld. It was cold, real cold and the target would be used to it. Dobart felt like the only man asking questions and was met with a short, exasperated answer from his CO for each as though it was a waste of time. Only one man after all.

Three days. The blunt answer to the question of how long they had kept eyes on the target. Dobart knew he should have walked from the operation at the revelation, three days was nowhere near long enough to work up a picture of the man's movements. "He drinks all day, finds himself a woman - paying for it where necessary and then doesn't come out of his room all night. Can set your watch by him." Three days was not long enough, it should have been weeks but everyone in the snatch group just wanted it over and done with, wanted out of the cold. Dobart shared the others' disdain of the conditions though knew a few weeks in the snow was preferable to screwing the hold thing up and maybe ending up dead.

The ten Cerberus men met up one last time (two were keeping eyes on the target's apartment) before the snatch in an abandoned warehouse a short shuttle ride from the target building. The apartment building itself was a long u-shape when viewed from above and fifteen stories tall. The target's room was on the eastern, inner edge, tenth floor. "That's a lot of windows." Dobart had tried to give this as a warning but was reminded once again that it was only one man and there was "the sniper team across the way, quit your whining." Small comfort.

Dobart just couldn't understand the rush to capture this guy and alive? What did he know? The operative you replaced asked a lot of questions too, he was politely told to shut up or leave. The men he was working with offered little confidence, _Surely they can see this whole thing is fucked._ They went over the plan together in the warehouse, Dobart and three others would breach the target's apartment. Two more would provide sniper cover from across the dead-end alleyway - they had been all day - Dobart fought every instinct to ask if they thought they had been compromised by the target, knowing full well what their answer would be. Another two would cover the corridor as the team went in. The rest, the final four would remain in the shuttle outside.

"In case of whatever." That was the word of the squad leader who would be amongst said four but Dobart knew they just wanted to stay warm and comfortable while the 'routine snatch of one guy' went off. _Nothing is routine._

The operation was to take place at dusk before the temperature plummeted with the disappearance of the system's small star behind the horizon. It was also when the target would return from the bar and hopefully be at his most inebriated. He remained the operation's biggest unknown and what little data afforded to Dobart on the target was smothered with black, censoring bars. He was in contact with the shuttle team on the ride over. "He got in about an hour ago, with a companion. Came to the window and drew the curtains. Been keeping track of them on thermals since."

"Constant?" Dobart was on edge in the shuttle; check, re-check and re-checking his equipment as he interrogated the team, "You didn't go for a piss? Take a short walk around the room? Gaze into each other's eyes for a moment too long?" He instantly regretted the final question and knew he had destroyed any chance of an honest response from the sniper.

"Constant," Dobart heard him spit after the venomous answer, "I am seeing two red-orange, humanoid masses lying together... sir." The 'sir' was more sneer than word. How many people in the building had spotted the two and spread the word in whispers of the strangers? Again, more preparation would have prevented it. How many more would see the shuttle drop armed men on the ground outside? Would the elevators be in use? _The whole thing is a gaggling clusterfuck. We're supposed to be Cerberus operatives and he we are like kids playing war. If I didn't need the money so bad... _How many eyes were glued to the peepholes as Dobart led the three others down the damp, drab hallway toward the target door? _He already knows, he's waiting on the other side of that door with a fucking shotgun. Casually in a chair, waiting._

His inner voice screamed in his head even though the overwatch pair were giving him contradictory information, "We can see your coming down the hall, faint heat signatures. He's still in bed with whatever piece of ass he brought back."

Dobart paused at the door and the rest stacked up behind him, his whole body throbbed in anticipation. There was no time then for his fears and worries, his mind needed to be focused and clear. He allowed himself one reassuring thought, _It's only one man._ He motioned for one of them to come to the door and be ready to kick it down on three. A slow, rhythmic counting on his fingers and silence instantly shattered with the hinges.

The place was a dump, food wrappers and dishes littered the stained floor. The only light came from a beside lamp in the open-plan adjacent room and cast long shadows across the space. The men with Dobart were at least professional in their execution of the snatch and spread quickly across the apartment with a chorus of 'clear'. "Sir, get over here!" A voice from near the bed, Dobart went over and felt sick.

He had half-expected a drunken, ex-Alliance soldier to be stood naked and handcuffed with a screaming accomplice being held by the wrist. Instead there were two females in the bed, half-exposed by a misplaced bed sheet and seemingly unaware of their rude, uninvited house guests. "Off their fucking faces on something." _He was tipped off by somebody and made a run for it._

"Overwatch," Dobart was on the comms, "You guys fucked up! Target has gone." He was livid at their mistake and time that had been wasted. Who knew how far Bitsiraev had made it in this time? He got his answer in the reply from the sniper team's channel.

"True, they fuck up," the thick local accent, "But not so badly as you. You should tell him not to open curtain." Dobart turned to the man at the window about to let a little of the outdoor floodlights in. The heavy curtain lifted without him so much as touching it and he crumpled to the floor with shards of glass from the window. The crack of the rifle seemed to arrive a moment later. The two presumed prostitutes didn't so much as stir at the commotion.

"Everyone out! Now! We're compromised!" The fish needed out of the barrel. There was a feverish dash back out in the hall as the remaining three forgot all survival training in a bid for actual survival. He hadn't heard anymore shots and they crouched out in the hall to plan their next move. _Now he's going to make his run for it._

"Dobart," the shuttle pilot broke up their frantic breaths, "I can't raise overwatch on the comms."

"Target has slipped the noose, we have one definite and two probable KIAs," he tried to think, they had to get outside, "Drop your guys off and get in the air, let me know if anyone leaves the building."

"Will do."

It was cold without his armour and Ahmedov wished he had picked up something other than the shirt and pants before he made his escape. The time window had been so small and left little choice. Distracting the sniper team and replacing himself with another warm body had cost him a small fortune in nightly rates but it had all paid off. Their rifle was too cumbersome but the two had been armed with pistols and one would have to suffice.

The cold air tore at his lungs as he ran from the apartments along the white-dusted street toward the edge of town, the snow jerked up and down in his vision with every heavy footfall. He had been momentarily surprised to discover it was Cerberus men with eyes on him and not the Alliance but the result was the same and the surveillance shoddy. Able to lose their amateurish tails on him with ease he wondered what sort of yokels were even after him. Even able to watch and listen to those supposed to be doing the same to him, almost laughing out loud to find out they were attempting the grab after three days.

He should've gotten off-world then and been making a relay jump when they kicked his door down, but he didn't. Pride was Ahmedov's greatest sin and led him down the path to the other six. He had spotted the crude overwatch the first morning they set up, whilst stretching naked at his window and scratching his balls for their benefit. He waited outside as the operation reached its zenith, listening at the door for the perfect moment of entry. He liked to think - although he could never know for sure - that he kicked in their door at the same moment the team across the way busted in his own. The rest was all so many broken limbs and pathetic pleas.

He ran having heard the shuttle and knowing another burst of biotics so soon would have left him exhausted. He embraced the cold air at first as a reminder of who he was and where he came from until every hulking breath began to kill and there were tears in his eyes from the wind. He needed to get to the western outskirts and the amongst the small forest that hugged the edge of the buildings as a reminder of what the planet used to be. More importantly the snow-laden, pine like sentries would render the shuttle useless and force the remaining Cerberus men to split up on foot to find him.

"No sign," the shuttle pilot said dejectedly, "He ain't in or around the building as far as I can tell." _He should've been long gone but stayed to fuck with us._

"Any visitors leave the vicinity?"

"Not since the contact, he'll be on foot."

Dobart had left the remaining two to carry the body out from the room and take statements from the two female companions when they came out of their drug-induced stupor. He met up with the two sentries in the corridor, bounded down the stairs, feet slapping on the bleak concrete and burst out into the cold air with no clue of what to do next. The cold became their ally, knowing that few would venture out in such conditions and snow fell through spotlights, vanishing into the thin white blanket. "Get up high," he said to the pilot, "Look for any heat signatures within running distance. Out of the ordinary."

They waited outside, the six of them twitching and jogging on the spot, for word from the eyes in the sky. Every second they waited was a second the target put more distance between them but any time spent chasing in the wrong direction was wasted entirely. Dobart was thankful for the Cerberus helmets that hid accusing eyes, in them he had already caused the deaths of three.

"West," the pilot crackled, "He's just entered some woods about half a click away."

"You'll drop us off outside the treeline." Dobart knew the shuttle was useless for insertion amongst the timber and the target would too. Though the vehicle could still be used to hinder his movements with its side mounted gun if one was left aboard to man it. "Don't kill him," Dobart ordered as he was dropped off at the tree line, "Keep him turning, double him back if you can." He led the remaining four in amongst the wooden pillars, following the still fresh tracks until the pilot could force a change in the target's direction. Their armour and respirators would give them the edge in the chase but luck could still turn things one way or the other.

Ahmedov stopped as the shuttle screamed passed him overhead, he bent double with hands on his knees and heaved clouds of condensing breath into the air. The cold stung the extremities, fingers and toes burned with the frost and begged for respite. The pistol in one hand sapped ever more warmth from him into the conductive metal. He was blinded momentarily as the shuttle spun perpendicular to him and shone down a spotlight that lit up the snow on the ground and picked it out of the air like suspended diamonds. Ignoring it, he pressed on and left the glare for only a second before thrown back into its gaze as his movements were matched. Casting a shadow across his eyes with an arm was almost as worthless as those made by the high, thin branches and he couldn't effectively plan his route across the uneven ground.

The shuttle's nose faced right, to the north and Ahmedov took a sharp left knowing it would have to move in reverse to keep the light on him. His long shadow slipped quickly once more over the pin-cushion blanket. They would be in the woods behind him by now, he knew that much and they would know he was now headed south. He had to move fast. Losing them was not an option and nor would Ahmedov have been interested had it been one. The more space he put between himself and his pursuers the more chance they would split up to end it. One on one the odds were firmly in his favour, time and the elements were not. There was an undeniable rush from the situation, his heart pumped hard at the turning of the same old tables.

The thrill of the chase always worked both ways.

Dobart wrestled with doubt as happens between making a decision and realising the full effects of it. Having gotten word that the target had turned left, the five of them split into a staggered line to cover the most space and give the highest possibility of making contact. He had given strict instructions not to engage the target and to call in a sighting and wait for back up. But those soldiers? Forced to waste their time in the cold and after a man who had already killed three squad mates? Could they keep their finger off the trigger if the opportunity presented itself? All he could do in the mean time was plod along as quick as his legs would allow in the conditions, the snow forcing him to lift his legs higher than was comfortable, sapping the energy from him. He had taken the leftmost position in their ragtag net, hoping that it would give the best chance of running into the target.

Information came in constantly from above with the shuttle keeping track of all six in relation to each other. When it became clear the target was going to outrun and slip their cordon, Dobart told the shuttle to turn him again or hold him up at least. This needed to end. After its manoeuvre came a curious snippet from the pilot, "He's stopped. Amongst a cluster of trees, we can see him but can't get close or a clean shot."

He ordered that they try and hold him there while they converged on the position, wondering who was closest. He reiterated over the comms that the target was to be taken alive and not, _not_ to be approached without back up. Dobart figured he was probably furthest from the position and pumped his legs on the bearing given to him by the pilot. The sooner he got there the less chance of the others playing out their revenge under the spotlight, a splash of red victory over the virgin white. He could hear their excuse already, "He was only one man." And the rifle had never felt to heavy.

Ahmedov watched the searchlight stream through the thin pine branches, catching each breath in the air like a cloud. He would use the shuttle as a beacon for his hunters, its lighting bringing them to their individual ends. They needed him alive, the spotlight was attached to a side-mounted machine gun that would have cut him in half by now had that not been the case. But he did not need them alive or one perhaps, out of curiosity and even then not for very long. Just a few questions. Ahmedov put his back to a tree and waited, trying to adjust his ears to the hum of the shuttle so that he could pick out the soft crunch of snow. To run anymore would only have delayed the inevitable confrontation between himself and his pursuers, better it happened on his terms.

There was only a need to take on the first one against one, get his cold fingers around the dropped rifle and the rest would be easy. How many more before capturing him alive ceased being a priority? More than three was the only certain response and the delicate but deliberate footsteps from the other side of the tree gave an opportunity to find out if it was four. He let the pistol hang loose on one finger from the trigger guard and raised both hands above his head before he left cover and turned his back on the shuttle. The Cerberus soldier had been approaching the wrong tree, even with direction from the pilot and Ahmedov had to grab his attentions with a quick shout and a broad grin, "Over here." The rifle trained on him in an instant and the barked commands came in a flurry to try and hide the soldier's surprise and apprehension.

"Stop! Drop the gun! Drop the gun! Drop it!"

Dobart heard the words over the net, only able to curse the soldier's headstrong actions and pump his legs harder. Giving orders now would only distract the soldier from the target and create an unwanted window of opportunity. The action played out to him in bursts over the comms that broke in above the rasp of his laboured breaths. "Be advised, contact with target. Now unarmed." Dobart saw brief flashes of the shuttle, of its searchlight, still off in the distance and knew things were going to play out one way or the other before he so much as got there.

"Hands behind your head! Behind your head! Listen to me! Do you local shits understand english? Hands behind your head! What did you say? What the fuck did you just say? Don't make me shoot you! Lot of accidents could happen out here now your hands, head, now! What the hell do you- shit!" There was a three bullet burst and a scream like a butchered hog before static and relative silence.

"He's a biotic!" the shuttle pilot took up the slack of updating the remaining men on the situation, "Christ he split the guy from shoulder to guts, armour and all! Fucking mutant piece of shit! Grease that fucker!"

"No!" Dobart imagined the gunner's finger stopping dead on the trigger, "We need him alive!"

"At what cost?" the pilot muttered and cut himself off as he realised he had left the comms channel open by mistake.

More than four was Ahmedov's answer. He had waited for a moment to feel a line of machine gun fire tear through him and it never came. Instead the long shadows hovered gently from side to side, stretching far out in front until darkness swallowed the trunks. And a little further the glints and reflections of shifting armour plates working their way to him, still a way off in the wooden needles. He quickly went over to the body and put a hand on the rifle, finding the dead fingers locked stiff around the grip. No blood had been spilt, his attack had fused flesh and armour as the the shoulder had peeled from the torso. Bone, metal and organs combined into a queer, hardened paste where the insides should have been spilt and melted the snow.

Gunfire. Echoed cracks and shouts travelled so well in the cold, night air. Dobart stopped and listened, counted the rifles and detected three separate sources. _Shit_. A flurry of information on the nets, shouting and swearing with no discernible narrative. All he could do was keep running. The skirmish was in sight by then, the muzzle flashes between trunks and the delayed cracks. Nothing made sense from his vantage and Dobart could only run, impotently hoping that the gunner in the shuttle didn't end it in such a way so as to waste the sacrifices already made. "Get that light out of our face!" a man from ground yelled, "Can't see shit!" Rifle staccato punctuated everything and Dobart was quickly giving up on the operation being a success. A relative success, four men dead.

Five. Suddenly one less rifle in the percussion, though the others picked up the slack. The pilot was dark, quiet on Dobart's end of the comms completely. Didn't want the leader of the operation hearing what he said next, presumably to the man on the gun. Its own drumbeat slower and louder than the rifles on the ground and spewed a tracer with every third round, the light caught splinters and bark chewed up on their way to the deck though he couldn't see where the bullets were aimed. Though a few heavy bursts from the gun silenced all others and voices from men went quiet as though in awe. Were it not for his feverish pace Dobart might have heard the flakes of snow making contact with the ground.

"Target is down," somebody eventually thought to say.

The three remaining men in the snow stood around the target when Dobart arrived, the smell of gunfire in the air and the surrounding trees scarred and bitten by lead. A splash of red was already well trodden nearby and not a word was spoken by the Cerberus men, they were all listening intently to what Dobart had assumed to be a corpse.

"Was... fun. Next -ime I chase you." A liquid splutter and blood on the chin. Dobart stood over him like the rest, overcome with a queer respect or perhaps fear of him. The heavy rounds had caught him in the right arm and whilst is still remained somewhat connected down to the fingertips, the flesh was torn and flapping. Muscles split from snapped tendons and evidence of biotic implants were clearly visible. Ahmedov was in deep shock and managed to take short gasps between the mocking words, "Only... took... twelve of you." The laughter, interrupted with eruptions of blood that stained the teeth, haunted them all. Dobart ordered the wounds be packed with gauze and bandaged, not to waste the medi-gel. He would still be taken alive and shuttle searched for the nearest clearing in the trees.

"Nice shooting," he would say to the gunner at some point later.

"I missed."

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><p><strong>AN: Nice to write another action scene, play around with POVs and little jumps to keep the thing flowing quickly.**

**This took me four weeks. Four fucking weeks to write a chapter I can usually churn out in five or six days. The writer's block has set itself in reinforced concrete and I need to take some time on this thing. This is not be giving up on this as I have with other stories but quite the opposite. I worry that if I continue pumping out chapters at the rate I have done so far I will do something shit just to try and move things forward. I need to set up some sort of corkboard in my room like _The Wire_ and figure where the thing is going. I've seen it over the last few chapters, I've gotten lazy and complacent. I need to play ME2 again, that's the main thing. I just don't know when they meet. A side mission? A main mission?**

**I will keep writing in the mean time, don't worry about that. I have the first chapter of a ME3 thing hand written and ready for copying. Something to keep my going while I try and figure this story out.**


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